This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents
is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1986 by The Literary Estate of Mack Reynolds
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises 260 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10001
First printing, February 1986
ISBN: 0-671-65552-3
Cover art by Wayne Barlowe
Printed in the United States of America
Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER TRADE PUBLISHING GROUP
1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10020
Foreword
The greatest land acquisitions by any power in the history of the world
took place without even the faintest threat of arms. Not a shot was
fired by the conqueror in this unprecedented colonization program.
Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane were tyros, by
comparison, for none of them ruled a whole continent, much less two,
with scores of neighboring islands.
And it was possibly the softest sell of all time. The United States
Government simply issued a declaration that it welcomed any countries
in North, Central, or South America, or the Caribbean, to join it,
conferring all rights pertaining to American citizens, including the
Guaranteed Annual Stipend, or GAS—sometimes called Negative
Income Tax. Our English friends called it "the dole." They had seen it
before. The English had seen everything before—including permanent
decline.
Though the United States of America became the United States of the
Americas without force, all was not simplicity. Military dictatorships,
particularly in the banana republics, did all in their power to remain
separate. Armies were ordered to fire upon mobs demanding admission
to the new United States. But the soldiers laughed. One had to reach
the rank of major to attain an income equal to that of a citizen of the
United States on GAS.
So, with little strain on the Yankees, the Western Hemisphere
assimilated into the United States of the Americas.
And, in the eyes of some, that was only the beginning…
Chapter One: Horace Hampton
A battered hovercar pulled up in the parking lot behind the aged
apartment building. There were few other vehicles there.
Three men got out and headed across the parking area for the back
door. The one in the middle carried a cane and affected a slight limp.
The other two carried tired-looking attaché cases. All three were
dressed neatly, though their clothing was only a thin cut better than
prole level.
The one in the middle looked up at the paint-flaked wooden building
which was their destination. "You could sell it for an antique," he said.
One of the others grunted and told him, "You could sell all New Salem
as an antique. Restore it—something like colonial Williamsburg over in
Virginia. You could put up a big sign for the tourists: 'New Salem, Bible
Belt Town, Circa 1900.' "
They ascended the stairs to the second floor. Thus far they had seen
nobody at all, which was understandable. They had counted on the total
population being down at the park for the political rally. Aside from
Tri-Di, there was precious little in the way of local entertainment.
On the second floor, the largest of the three men looked up and down
the hall, dipped a hand into his side pocket, and brought forth a pair of
thin black gloves. His right hand went back into the pocket of his
shorts and came forth with a key. He unlocked the door and all three
filed through quickly. He locked the door behind him.
The other two put their attaché cases and the cane on the room's
center table and also donned gloves. They seemed in no hurry. They
took out handkerchiefs and carefully wiped the cane and case with
professional care.
Their leader, a black, went through the small apartment, which
consisted of bedroom, bath, and kitchen, besides the living room into
which they had entered, and checked it out carefully. He, too, had left
his attaché case on the table after wiping it clean.
His companions looked about at the nondescript furniture, which
included a broken couch and an old-fashioned rocking chair.
The two were of dark complexion, but there the resemblance ended.
One was tall, wiry, and cougarlike of movement, black of hair and eye.
The other was below average height, stocky, muscular. He tended to
smile, while his companion was stoic of expression in keeping with his
Amerind tradition. The smaller man was Latino.
The stocky one said, "Look, civilization." He pointed at the sole
representative of modern furnishing, a small Tri-Di set.
The black, who had checked out the other rooms, returned and said,
"Wizard, let's get the show roadbound."
Jose Zavalla took up the walking stick and began to unscrew the handle.
His limp was gone. The handle came away and he upended the cane to
let its contents slide gently into his right hand. It was a metallic tube
about three feet long, threaded on one end externally, internally on the
other. He laid it back on the table.
"Jesus, it's light," he said.
Tom Horse, the Indian, who was opening the two attaché cases, said,
"Titanium alloy."
The sole contents of the hand luggage consisted of seven items, all
carefully wrapped in foam rubber. Tom took them out gingerly, one by
one, and laid them in a row on the table.
He said, "How's it look up the road, Hamp?"
Hamp was the black, a well-built, dark-chocolate man with features
more Caucasian than Bantu. He went over to the middle of the three
curtained windows that lined the street side of the room. He pulled one
curtain aside a bit and peered out, looking toward the north. From a
jacket pocket he brought forth a small monoscope, twisted it open, and
took off both lens shields. He put the eyepiece to his right eye,
adjusted the focus.
He said, "Quite a turnout. Must be triple the population of the town."
"You don't hear the governor sound off every day in New Salem and
environs," Tom told him, unwrapping his packages with love care.
"Nice big banner above the speaker's stand," Hamp said. "Says,
America for the Americans. Very sentimental. American flags at both
ends. They look a little out of date. How many stars in the flag these
days?"
"Who keeps track? About a hundred," Tom said. He had taken up the
tube Joe had extracted from the hollow cane and was carefully
screwing one of the other objects—a stubby rectangular affair—into
the threads of its interior.
He said bitterly, "America for the Americans. You can be an Englishman
or German whose parents came over twenty years ago and took out
citizenship papers and you're an American. But you can have ancestors
going back twenty thousand years on this continent and you're on the
shit list."
Hamp said, still surveying with his monoscope, "You damn redskins are
always complaining. Wait a minute, I think they've erected that
speaker's stand thirty meters farther up than we figured on."
"Hell," the Indian said, taking up an aluminum rod from the table. One
end of it was threaded. "I had it all zeroed, sighted-in, calibrated."
Joe, watching the assembly job, said, "That's the smallest breech I've
ever seen."
"Uh huh," Tom said, winding the aluminum rod into a hole at the end of
the deadly device. "This is a single-shot bolt action. But the bolt
doesn't stick out to the side, it's this little knob on the top."
"What's that?" Joe said of the steel rod the other was manipulating.
He had obviously never seen the thing before, assembled or otherwise.
"Part of the skeleton stock," Tom told him, tightening it firmly. The rod
canted downward from the breech at an angle.
Hamp came back to the table where Tom Horse and Jose Zavalla were
assembling the gun.
Tom was saying to Joe, "Hand me that other rod."
Hamp brought a quarter-liter bottle from an inner pocket. He studied
its label for a moment, then unscrewed the top. He held it to his lips
and took a long pull.
"What's that?" Tom said, not looking particularly happy as he twirled
the new rod into its place.
"Cognac," Hamp told him. "Brandy. Have a slug. Listen, what effect is it
going to have, their erecting that stand in the wrong place?"
"No thanks," the Indian said, still not happy about the liquor. "I'm
driving. Besides, didn't you know we savages can't handle firewater?"
Joe said, "Brandy?" reaching for the bottle. "You mean aguardiente?
Man, you blacks really live it up. I haven't had anything but syntho-gin
for as long as I can remember." He took a hearty pull, brought the
bottle down, and stared at the label admiringly. "V.S.O.P. What the
hell's that mean?"
"It means it's worth its weight in diamonds," Hamp said. "Cloddies like
us can't afford it. It's forced on me by admiring women who lust for
my body. I brought it along as medicine—never know when I might get
sick. How about the range, Tom?"
Tom had finished screwing the shorter aluminum rod into the back of
the breech. It stuck out at a shallower angle, so that the two rods
looked like two sides of a narrow triangle. Joe handed him the short,
curved base, padded with holes drilled into it near both ends. There
was no threading now. Tom simply inserted the aluminum rods in the
holes and gave the base a whack with the heel of his right hand, driving
it tightly home.
He said to the black, "It's not important. This scope we've got is an
Auto-Range. Latest thing. Combines a range finder with a regular
telescopic sight. No sweat. Hand me that silencer, Joe."
"You're sure?" Hamp said, pushing the back of his left hand over his
mouth.
"Sure I'm sure," the other told him. "Take a minute or so to get it all
sighted in again.'' He took the long tube Joe handed over and began
screwing it into the barrel. It projected about a foot and a half when
he had it tightly fitted. The silencer was about two and a half times the
diameter of the barrel.
Tom said, "Where'd you get this sweetheart, Hamp? It's a handmade
work of art."
"News reporter I used to know. Used to collect offbeat guns. He picked
it up in one of the bush wars over in Africa. Assassin gun. For all I
know, it's the only one ever made."
"He was crazy, giving this away," Tom said. "It's a real collector's
item."
Joe handed him the telescopic sight. There were grooves gouged into
the metal top of the barrel. The Indian carefully eased the sights into
them. On the top and right-hand side of the instrument were small
vernier screws for adjusting the crossed hairs inside the scope.
"Where's the fuckin' trigger?" Tom said, holding out his hand.
"Mind your fuckin' language," the Chicano told him. "I'm a lady on my
mother's side." He brought forth from one of the attaché cases a twirl
of tissue paper, unwrapped it, and handed the contents over.
The sliver of a trigger was slightly curved and there were threads on
one end. Tom Horse began screwing it into place below the breech.
"Why couldn't that have been built in?" Joe said.
The Indian took up the assembled gun and handled it admiringly. "Same
reason there's no protruding bolt. This whole thing is constructed to
disassemble into parts that any man could carry around while wearing an
overcoat. Most of it would go into deep pockets. The barrel would be
the only thing that's clumsy. You'd have to suspend it from your belt,
or maybe by a strap under your shoulder."
Hamp took another slug of the cognac and looked at his watch. He said,
"The governor and his committee ought to be showing up any time. Let's
move this table over to the window."
While the others were doing that, Tom went to one side of the room
and selected a straight chair. He put the chair next to the end of the
table, which now stood against the middle window, and took from one of
the attaché cases a very light, bipod rifle support. It was of aluminum,
held in place by an elastic strap. He slipped it over the end of the rifle
and its attached silencer.
He said to the black, "How does it look now, Hamp?"
Hamp had his monoscope to his eye again. "Wizard. They're filing onto
the speaker's stand, everybody shaking hands and smiling at each
other. Very jolly. They've really got a turnout. The crowd must have
come from all over the county."
"The more the merrier," Joe growled. "Bastards will have something to
see this time."
Hamp said, "Now here's the setup, one last time, Tom, just to be sure.
The speaker's stand is about twenty-five feet high. Old Drive 'Em Out
Teeter stands way above the assembled mob so that they have to
throw their heads back to gawk at him. He likes to speak with a rail
before him so he can lean on it and thump it from time to time.
Somewhere along the line he must have seen some of the old historic
films of Mussolini hassling the wops from his balcony."
"All right, all right," Tom said impatiently, bringing forth from one of
the attaché cases a black rubber block in which were stuck three long,
pointed cartridges. They were of small caliber but necked down from a
large casing. He pulled one round out and put it on the table next to
him. The brass casing gleamed softly in subdued light.
Hamp was saying, "Teeter doesn't like to speak directly into a mike.
Instead, he has two of them hooked into the railing to each side of him,
about two meters apart."
"Right," Tom muttered, brushing the window curtain slightly to one side
so that he could see up the street. "So I focus a meter beyond the
mike nearest us."
Hamp pushed his left hand over his mouth again. "Wizard."
Joe had stationed himself at the window behind where the Indian was
setting up his assassin rifle. He said, "You better get your ass in a
hustle. Here comes the chairman."
"Plenty of time," Tom said evenly.
Hamp took up the small bottle of brandy, now nearly empty, and took a
quick swig before setting it down on the table. Tom shot him a
disapproving glance but said nothing.
The Indian glued his right eye to the telescopic sight. It had already
been sighted in, but he reached out delicately and adjusted the focus.
The chairman's face leapt into clarity before him.
The marksman took the nub of the bolt in his thumb and index finger
and gave it a counterclockwise twist, pulling the bolt back in its groove
to reveal the trough for the long bullet. He took up the cartridge and
inserted it, thumbed the bolt back home and flicked it clockwise,
smoothly locking it into place.
He settled comfortably into his chair, pushed the curtain of the window
back a little more.
"Open it," he said softly.
Hamp pushed the window up sufficiently to make room for firing.
The Indian snuggled into position behind the scope eyepiece. "All right,
Governor Teeter, last of the racist rabble-rousers," he murmured
softly. "You've sounded off once too often."
On the outskirts of the teeming crowd which had gathered to hear
Teeter, two blacks stood inconspicuously in the shade of an ancient live
oak, near the trunk. From their distance, the white-clad speaker was
hardly distinguishable, but the loudspeaker system brought his words
clearly enough and his fist-shaking gestures of emphasis could not be
misunderstood.
One of the blacks said softly, "Old Drive 'Em Out is in full voice today.
I'm beginning to suspect he doesn't like bloods."
Without warning, the figure on the speaker's stand came to a shocked
stiffening; red blossomed out in a large blot on his white shirt. He
staggered for a moment and then slowly crumbled, falling out of sight.
One of the blacks shook his head. "Drunk as a lord," he said.
The other surreptitiously brought a transceiver from his pocket,
activated it, and said softly, "Bullseye." He put the communication
device back into his pocket and said urgently, "Let's get the hell out of
here, Jackie."
In the run-down apartment, Hamp picked up the assassin rifle by its
fore end, its bipod still hanging free, and took it into the bedroom. He
pulled the bipod off, held up the aged mattress with one hand, and
stuck the gun and stand under it. He smoothed out the bed neatly and
returned to the other two.
Joe said, in deprecation, "It won't take them long to find that."
"Who cares?" Hamp said. "It's untraceable."
He picked up the rubber container holding the two unspent rounds and
dropped it into a side pocket, then took the small flask of brandy.
After offering it to both Tom and Joe Zavalla, who shook their heads,
he finished it. "Let's drag ass," he said.
He unlocked the door, let them precede him, and then relocked it. They
headed for the stairs, unhurried as before. They'd left the cane and
attaché cases behind.
Down in the parking lot, they stopped before a waste receptacle,
stripped the gloves from their hands, and dropped them in. Hamp also
discarded the empty bottle and the unused ammunition after wiping
them.
They got into their hovercar, all three in front, the black driving, and
unhurriedly left the parking area.
They emerged onto the main street and headed away from the park
where the rally had been taking place. Even at this distance, they could
hear the swell of shouts and screams, though almost drowned by police
sirens.
"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," said Joe, who was sitting by
the window, his vague smile on his lips. "I wonder how many men, women,
and children have been killed as a result of his racist rantings?"
They left the environs of New Salem and headed, at a moderate speed,
out into the countryside. They passed a sign welcoming all to New
Salem.
"Salem," Tom said, musing. "Wasn't that where they burned all the
witches?"
"Yes," Hamp told him softly. "This time we reversed it and clobbered a
witch hunter. Joe, there's a bottle in that glove compartment."
But the Indian beside him shot the black one of his looks from the side
of his eyes and said quickly, "Take it easy, Hamp. The day's not over.
We wouldn't want them to hang a drunk driving romp on you."
"Wizard," Hamp said. "But I'm not drunk."
"You don't have to be. They'd book you anyway, if you showed any
indication at all of drinking. Joe, throw that bottle out."
Joe took the half-liter of booze from the dash compartment and
looked at the label sadly before tossing the bottle far off the road into
a field of sweet corn.
For a while, they drove along silently, each absorbed in his own
thoughts in the anticlimax of what they'd just been through.
Joe said finally, "That was a good spot to pot him from. How'd you
locate it?"
Hamp said, "Not much trouble. Teeter always starts off his campaigns
in New Salem. It's the oldest town of any size in the state. That
apartment was ideal. The renter lives alone and goes up to Chicago six
months of the year to work on some part-time job. He hates the big
city, so he returns here for the rest of the year. As it turned out, we
needed the place just when he didn't."
Tom looked over at him. "How'd we find out about it?"
"One of our whitey members came to town and hung around for a while
in bars in the neighborhoods we were interested in. He finally got to
talking to this fellow."
They held silence for a while. There was a certain tenseness in waiting
for what they knew was to come, the inevitable.
Hamp said, "Oh, oh. Here it is. Road block."
Up ahead were two State Police vehicles barring the way. There were
also two police hovercycles. Of the seven officers, two carried
automatic Gyrojet carbines; the others, bolstered side arms. There
were red lights flashing above the cars.
Hamp said, "Play it cool. No temper, Joe, and no wisecracks." They came
to a halt some thirty feet from the barricade.
Two of the police troopers strolled toward them. About twenty feet
off, one of them stopped and stood there, his legs parted, his holster
unsnapped. The second trooper came up to the driver's window and
looked in at them.
Hamp said, his voice modulated, "What's the difficulty, officer?"
The state trooper said, "I'll ask the questions, boy. Now, you three get
out of there and line up against the side of this here car. Spread your
legs and lean your hands up against it."
Hamp said, his voice still quietly even, "What's the charge, officer?"
Joe had brought a pocket transceiver out, flicked back the cover,
activated it, and said, "We have been stopped by police and ordered
from our vehicle, evidently to be searched. The police officer's badge
number is 358."
The trooper looked at him coldly. He was a rawboned, lanky type,
probably in his late twenties. His uniform boasted all the glory of a
Hungarian brigadier. He said, "Who you talking to?"
Joe smiled. "A friend."
Hamp repeated, "What is the charge, officer? Isn't a warrant required
to search a citizen?"
"Don't smartass me, boy," the trooper said grimly. He dropped his hand
to his Gyrojet pistol.
The black said, still mildly, "My name isn't Boy. It's Horace Greeley
Hampton. And I consider myself acting under duress."
He opened the door of the hovercar and got out, followed by Tom and
Joe, but not until Joe had said into his transceiver, "The police officer
called Mr. Hampton 'boy' contemptuously and made a gesture toward
his sidearm, reinforcing his demand that we be searched."
The three lined up against the car, as ordered, and the second trooper
came up to help in frisking them. They were thorough.
The second state policeman said, as though disappointed, "They're
clean, Ranee."
Ranee said, "Go through the car." While the other was obeying, he said
to Hamp, Tom, and Joe, "Okay, you three. Let's see your ID."
They handed over their Universal Credit Cards, which performed the
functions of identity cards, driver's licenses, and everything else a
prole needed for identification.
He looked at them carefully, brought forth a police transceiver, and
read off names and identity numbers into it, then asked for a police
dossier check of the data banks.
He turned his pale eyes to them. "Horace Greeley Hampton, Tom Horse,
Jose Angel Mario Zavalla. Born in Ohio, Colorado, and Texas. All on
Guaranteed Annual Stipend." He sneered at that—an overly done,
artificial sneer. "What're you doing in this state?"
"We are on our way through," Hamp said, his accent still that of an
educated man.
"Where'd you just come from?"
"New Salem."
"Oh, you did, eh? What were you doing there?"
"We went over to see the rally, listen to the governor's opening
campaign speech."
"Then what're you doing here?"
"The crowd was so large that we couldn't get anywhere near the
speaker's stand. Besides, there had been quite a bit of drinking. Some
of the, ah, gentlemen in the crowd didn't seem to like our complexions.
At any rate, we decided to return to where we're staying."
"Where's that?"
Joe said into his transceiver, "We're being questioned, although thus
far no charge has been made and we have not even been told whether
or not we're under arrest. Our vehicle is being searched without our
permission and without a warrant."
Ranee glared at him but forced his eyes back to Hamp, who seemed to
be the spokesman of this unorthodox trio.
Hamp said, "We're staying at the We Shall Overcome Motel, near
Leesville."
The washed out, grayish eyes of the trooper tightened infinitesimally.
He looked at Joe and said, "And that's who you're talking to?"
Joe smiled his constant smile. "That's right, Mr. Policeman, sir."
Hamp looked over at him and slightly shook his head.
The second trooper emerged from the vehicle. He said, grudgingly,
"It's clean, Ranee."
Ranee's police transceiver buzzed and he listened to the report on the
police dossiers of the three, his face less than pleased.
Joe said, in his communication device, "We have been checked out in
the police data banks and have obviously been cleared; however, we are
still being held without charge, without warrant, and…"
Ranee began to go red around his neck. "Take that damned thing away
from him," he snapped to the other trooper, who was leaning back
against the car, arms folded. He came erect gladly and started in the
Mexican-American's direction.
Joe began to retreat backward, saying quickly into his transceiver,
"State Police officer Number 358 has ordered my transceiver taken.
One of us is a black; notify the nearest Nat Turner Team. One of us is
an Amerind; notify the Sons of Wounded Knee. I am a Chicano; get in
touch with the Foes of the Alamo. Notify our legal department! Notify
Civil Liberties. Alert the Reunited Nations Human Relations…"
The trooper was on him, grabbing the transceiver away. Joe smiled and
winked at him.
Hamp, his face very serious, turned to Ranee and said, "You're in the
dill now, officer."
The trooper's face was suddenly wan and he was breathing deeply. He
looked from Hamp to Tom and Joe, then back again. His tongue came
out and licked dry lips.
"All right," he said. "Okay. You can go. We have nothing to hold you on.
The governor was shot in New Salem an hour or so ago." He took in a
deep breath. "It's our job. No hard feelings, fellas."
Joe smiled, "In that case, fuzzy, how about a donation for the Anti-
Racist League?"
"Get the hell out of here," Ranee snarled. He turned to the other
trooper, who was looking at him in surprise. "Give them back that
transceiver and their IDs."
When the three had left, the second trooper looked at his companion.
He said, "What the hell, Ranee. You practically kissed their asses and
they were driving right from New Salem."
The other glowered at him. "How'd you like somebody to toss a grenade
into your living room? Those bastards never quit, once you're on their
list. They don't care if it takes years. Sooner or later they hit you."
Hamp, Tom, and Joe drove along in silence for a time, letting the
tension drain away, until Hamp turned to Joe and said, "What in the
hell's a Nat Turner Team?"
And Tom Horse added, "Or the Sons of Wounded Knee?"
"Damned if I know," Joe said, grinning. "I made them up as I went
along. Same with the Foes of the Alamo. What's the old gag? If
there'd been a back door to the Alamo there would never have been a
Texas."
The We Shall Overcome Motel was well done. Extending over quite a
few acres, it was completely surrounded by a high, heavy, barbed-wire
fence. A strong steel gate spanned the dressed stone entrance and,
behind it, several public buildings, including a large store, a recreation
hall, and a restaurant. An auto-bar clubroom stood off to one side of
these, near a good-sized swimming pool, which was crowded with
swimmers and sunbathers, mostly of dark complexion but with a
scattering of whites.
In the center of the compound was a sizable grove of trees, largely
pines. A person could wander into the pine grove, find a bit of a
clearing, and spread out on his back, to stare up at clouds or stars and
feel, so temporarily, free.
The area around the little forest was devoted to mobile homes and
campers of all varieties. At present, a small mobile town with an art
colony theme—some forty homes in all—was temporarily parked en
route to Mexico and parts south. Not all proles on GAS crammed
themselves into mini-apartments in high-rise buildings in the cities.
Hamp pulled up before the administration building, dropped the
vehicle's lift lever, and switched off the engine.
Maximillian Finklestein issued from the office and strolled over toward
them. He was a tallish, sparse, stoop-shouldered man of about forty-
five. As they emerged from the hovercar he came up and said, "How
was the rally, chum-pals?"
Tom shrugged and said, "We didn't stay. Too big a crowd. We heard
there was a lot of excitement after we left. Somebody took a shot at
the governor."
Finklestein clucked his tongue. "Imagine that. Was he hurt?"
Joe said, "We got the impression he was hit. Didn't you see it on Tri-
Di?"
"I was working," Max told him. "Come on in and have a drink; we'll check
the news."
Hamp said, "Your invitation appeals to me strangely, especially the drink
part, but I want to stretch my legs a little first."
"Me, too," Tom said. "A little stroll before the firewater."
The three of them, accompanied by Max, set out leisurely for the
wooded area.
They entered the trees, for the time holding silence. After a couple of
hundred feet they reached a small clearing, the ground well covered by
pine needles and leaves. Then, in silent agreement, they all stretched
out on their faces in a starlike arrangement, their heads close
together. Their faces were to the ground, partially into the needles and
leaves. Even the best shotgun mike would play hell listening to them
now.
Max said softly, "What happened?"
"Plumb center," Tom whispered. "The capslug shattered right on his
chest and splattered red goo all over his shirt. I could see his face go
pale and his eyes pop. He fainted."
The motel manager growled, "The loudmouth bastard'll know it could
have been the real thing. Might even rethink his racist campaigning if
he's smarter than he is bigoted. How tough were the fuzzies?"
Hamp took over the report, also whispering into the leaves. "About as
expected. They hated it, every minute of it, and they hated us and our
uppity ways, but they weren't about to stick their necks out. They'll
toss it all into the laps of the IABI. They've heard all the silly rumors
about how tough we are. They had no intention of becoming martyrs for
a state cop's pay."
Finklestein said, "I've already got instructions for you. You three will
be under special observation. The IABI isn't completely dull. They
might not dig up proof but they'll strongly suspect you of the burlesque
assassination. Your dossiers will tell them you're members of the Anti-
Racist League. You were admittedly present in New Salem and Governor
Teeter was an anachronism, the last of the really all-out rabid politician
racists. They know it was just a matter of time before we zeroed in on
him. They'll probably be surprised we didn't actually bump him off."
"Swell," Tom said into the leaves, a note of extreme weariness in his
voice. "So what do we do now?"
"You break up as a team. None of you will continue to operate in this
section." Max fished in a jacket pocket. "Tom, you go to southern
Illinois. You're an unknown there. Go to a town named Zeigler and
report to the section leader. Here's the address." He handed the paper
over.
Tom looked at it and said, "What do I do there?"
Max seemed surprised at the question. "I haven't the vaguest idea," he
told the Indian. "I understand that it's a pretty backward part of the
country: fundamentalists, high illiteracy rate—you've seen it all before.
But I don't know what they'll have you doing. You might as well take
off. No need for you to know where Hamp and Joe are assigned."
"Yeah," Tom said, scrambling to his feet and stuffing the address into
his shorts pocket. He looked down at the other two, hesitated for a
moment, then said gruffly, "Hang loose, chum-pals."
They both looked up from the leaves and nodded. The team hadn't
operated together for very long, but they'd been more than unusually
compatible.
"So long, Redskin," Joe said softly.
When the other was gone, the remaining three returned their lips to
the pine needles and leaves.
Max said, "Joe, you head south for Mexico City. Here's your contact."
He handed another note to the Chicano.
"Mexico?" Joe said. "I've never been down there. What do I do?"
"No need for me to know. But the way I understand it, there seems to
be an unlikely situation, particularly in the big centers like Mexico City
and Monterrey, where all the best positions wind up in the hands of
whites of Spanish descent. Next in the highest job and power echelons
are those with a high percentage of Spanish blood. Mestizos, they call
them. And, surprise, surprise! Guess who's the low man on the totem
pole?"
"The full-blooded Indian," Hamp growled. "How do they get around the
computers supposedly selecting the best citizens for whatever job
comes up?"
Max grunted at that. "Undoubtedly, the same way they do here. The
rumors continue that sometimes the data banks are jimmied, rigged.
But the programmers know angles. And that will probably be one of
Joe's tasks."
Joe sighed. "Same old story," he said. "Fuck the colored races. What's
my cover?"
"The obvious one, most nearly the truth. You're on GAS and can't find a
job up north. So, since you're bilingual, you head south hoping to use
your two languages to advantage in getting work." Max hesitated a
moment before adding, "You'd better get underway, too. You never
know. The IABI could show at any time to pick you three up."
Joe came to his feet. He smiled at Hamp, warmer than his usual
humorless smile. "Nice knowing you, Blood."
Hamp said, "Feeling's mutual, companero. Luck."
Joe left.
The two remaining readdressed themselves to the ground.
Hamp said, "What about me?"
Max said, "Your request for a leave of absence has been okayed." He
looked over at the black from the side of his eyes. "How come, Hamp?
There's a hell of a shortage of top men and, from what I understand,
you're continually taking leaves."
"Wizard," Hamp said in deprecation. "But we'll have fewer field men
than ever if you wear us down to the point where we lose efficiency.
I've been in the trenches too often in the past couple of months. I
need a breather. I think I'll spend some time in New York. Where do I
report when I'm unwound?"
Max handed him a note. "To me. As usual, I haven't the vaguest idea of
what your next assignment will be. However, there's one item of
business on your way back east, a new contact. A Lee Garrett, who lives
in Greenpoint, Pennsylvania."
"A new contact?" Hamp said, moderately indignant. "Have I sunk to the
level where you're using me for elementary propaganda?"
"Headquarters seems to think that this one is a better prospect than
usual. A whitey. Not on GAS. Better than usual education. Our local
section isn't too top-level, so they want a good agent to make the initial
contact with Garrett." Max handed the black another note.
"Wizard," Hamp said, coming to his feet and brushing pine needles from
his shorts and jacket. "Do I leave now, like Tom and Joe?"
Max stood, too. "Why don't you come over to my place and we'll talk
some shop and have a couple of quick ones. Tom and Joe never did get
that drink I promised them."
"They're dedicated," the other snorted. "Both of them hardly touch
the stuff. Lead me to it. As a matter of fact, I've got some good
French brandy in my luggage. We can crack that."
Max Finklestein wondered vaguely how the other could afford a bottle
of imported brandy. It would take a month of GAS credits to buy such
a potable.
Chapter Two: Franklin Pinell
When the two corrections officers from the prison handed Franklin
Pinell over to the court bailiffs in the Justice Department Building, he
was still handcuffed to the heavier-set, tougher-looking guard. While
the second officer was getting a bailiff to sign the receipt for their
charge, the prisoner was freed of his cuffs. The guard dialed the
appropriate number on the shackles and then put his thumbprint on the
tiny screen. The titanium alloy handcuffs came away.
"There he is," he said, obviously bored. "Frank Pinell. Supposed to be
tough. Haven't you got cuffs for him?"
"No," the bailiff said. "We don't usually use them."
The prison guard looked the two court officers up and down. The older
one was pushing sixty, much overweight, and the second didn't look
much more competent.
"He's supposed to be tough," the guard repeated. "A killer. You fellas
heeled?"
"We don't usually carry guns," the other said.
Frank Pinell stood there rubbing the wrist that had been confined. He
looked at the prison guards emptily as they turned to leave. "Be seeing
you," he said.
The one to whom he had been handcuffed snorted tack over his
shoulder. "Not where you're going, chum-pal."
When they were gone, Pinell looked at the bailiffs.
"This way, son," the older one said, and then added gruffly, "Tough luck.
I've got a son your age."
The three of them ascended marble stairs to the second floor and then
proceeded to the left down the wide corridor.
The younger bailiff said, "Those types see too many crime Tri-Di shows.
What good do they think it would do you to escape? Without a credit
card you couldn't buy a stick of chewing gum, or a ride on the metro,
not to speak of a meal.
You have no home and it's a felony for any friend to take you in."
"Stop it, stop it," Pinell said without tone. "You're breaking my heart."
He was twenty-five years of age, looked surprisingly athletic as proles
went, was medium tall, clean and neat even in less than top quality garb,
and his bearing would have passed muster in any upper class gathering.
His dark brown hair was worn full and combed directly back. His eyes
were a dark green and his rather long face had a Scottish cast. In less
plebeian dress he might have been typed as a graduate student or a
junior executive.
"Okay, son," the older one said. "Here we are." He opened half of a
heavy double door and the bailiffs led their charge through before
them.
The judge looked up from his desk. He was dressed in his traditional
black robes and resembled the older and kindlier of his two court
officers. That is, he was about sixty, overweight, his face lined not
with an immediate weariness but with one that had accumulated down
through the years.
"Franklin Pinell, Your Honor," the younger bailiff said.
"Yes, of course, James." The judge looked at the prisoner. "Be seated,
Pinell." Then back at the guards. "Please wait outside. I believe you
already have your instructions."
"Yes, Your Honor." The younger bailiff hesitated, then said, "Judge,
the corrections officers from the prison said Pinell is reputed to be
dangerous."
"Indeed?" John Worthington looked at the youthful prisoner. "Are
you?"
Frank Pinell hesitated, then let air out of his lungs and said, "Under the
circumstances, no." He took the chair across from the judge's desk.
"Very well, that will be all, James, Bertram."
The bailiffs left and the judge sighed, studying the prisoner for a
moment. Pinell returned the scrutiny, his expression saying, it's your
ball, start bouncing it.
The judge sighed again and took up a report from before him. He said,
"I am afraid we have bad news for you, Franklin."
"I expected it."
The judge ignored that, looked at the report, and said,
"The legal computers have found you guilty and recommend
deportation."
Frank Pinell's face went blank. "Deportation? But I've got only one
major…"
The other was shaking his head. "Your criminal dossier lists four
felonies. As a four-time loser, your sentence becomes deportation for
life."
"But Your Honor, those first two romps were kid stuff. I was only in my
early teens."
"But you served time for your offenses, no matter how short, as you
did for your third, ah, romp. The fact that your first felony amounted
to no more than taking an unguarded hovercar for a joyride is beside
the point. You served several months in a youth detention camp. And
your second offense and third…"
"All right. Who can argue with a damned computer? Isn't there any way
I can appeal?"
"Not at this point," the judge told him. "If you can claim new evidence
later and it is made available to the data banks, you can then appeal.
Appeals are seldom successful. The computers don't make mistakes,
Franklin. Judges and juries used to, perhaps, but computers don't."
"It's a hell of a thing to call justice," the younger man said bitterly.
"Being thrown out of your own country."
The judge looked at him in weariness and said, "What was it the old
cynic asked? 'Come now, the truth; who among us would be satisfied
with justice?' The fact is, your fourth crime was the only really
reprehensible one. But it was homicide, and under rather strange
circumstances. Had that been your only felony, you would not have been
deported. Our penal system allows for rehabilitation even of
murderers. But with three other felonies on your record, the
computers opted for deportation."
"I don't want to live anywhere except in the States," Pinell said.
"Unfortunately, that is now out of your hands, Franklin. You should have
considered it sooner. Deportation makes sense, from the viewpoint of
the government. Some decades ago, when the penal laws were
revamped, they found that it cost more to keep a criminal in prison than
to send him to Harvard. As it is now, the government will no longer be
put to the expense of keeping you in prison, or even on GAS. Nor will
you be free to commit new felonies upon serving your time or being
paroled."
The older man put that part of it behind him and said, "You will be
issued one thousand pseudo-dollars in the form of Swiss gold francs.
You will be deprived of your Universal Credit Card, and you are
forbidden ever again to enter this country."
"What happens when the thousand runs out?" the other said, his voice
still low.
"That is not the concern of the United States of the Americas. You
make what arrangements you can in your host country."
Frank Pinell squared his shoulders. "All right. What country are you
sending me to?"
"To a certain point, that is your decision. Obviously, the advanced
nations will not accept you. However, some Third-World nations will
take you under certain circumstances. Their situation is something like
Australia and the American colony of Georgia when they were first
colonized. They needed population desperately, so England allowed
convicts to decide whether to spend their sentences in jail or to be
hanged, as the case might be, or to become colonists."
***proffedto here***
"What's that got to do with here and now?" Pinell said, impatient at the
older man's ramblings.
"In some nations, particularly in Africa and Indonesia, even partially
educated persons are in very short supply. Some of them, upon gaining
independence from the former colonial powers, had no university
graduates whatsoever. No doctors, no engineers, no lawyers—no one
really competent to hold high government office. Later, with the
support of the Reunited Nations and the assistance of the more
advanced countries, they were able to send students to America and
Europe, in hopes of alleviating this problem. Unfortunately, the
majority of such students chose to remain in the advanced countries or,
at least, to emigrate to nations less backward than their own. A facet
of the brain drain, in short."
"So I've got to choose a country so desperate for even semi-educated
manpower that they'll admit killers as immigrants."
"I'm afraid that's it, Franklin. Mozambique, for instance, or the
Seychelles, where the climate is said to be excellent, though the
islands are rather small and isolated."
"Any place where there'd be more whites? More people I could speak
the language with?" The prisoner's voice had grown sullen.
The judge took up a sheaf of papers from his desk. He perused it a few
minutes before saying, "According to your dossier, your schooling was
far above average for these days. And while you were never chosen for
regular employment by the National Data Banks, you have on several
occasions held down minor, short-term positions. This would
undoubtedly make you eligible for residence in Morocco, or at least
Tangier."
"Tangier?"
The judge, his tone unhappy, said, "A disreputable city immediately
across from Gibraltar on the North African coast. Although nominally
part of the Sherifian Empire, and subject to the Sultan, it's an
International Zone where few laws seem to apply. There is no
extradition, for instance, and few taxes. With the possible exceptions
of Nassau and Malta, it is usually considered to be the, ah, most wide-
open city in the world."
"Many Americans there?"
"The population is international. You'd find many English-speaking
residents. However, anyone seeking to rehabilitate himself would find
Tangier an unhealthy atmosphere, I should think. Its reputation is rank
indeed."
Frank Pinell grunted, impatient again. "Who said anything about
rehabilitation? All right, I'll take Tangier."
Pinell was kept in a detention cell in a high-security prison in New
Jersey only two nights before the plainclothes agents came for him.
They were typical of the breed, lower echelon operatives of the largest
police organization in the world— unless the Soviet Complex held that
honor. The Inter-American Bureau of Investigation was a product of its
times, which led to amalgamation of just about all areas of the
productive or governmental systems. In this case, it applied to the
police. The all-embracing IABI included what had once been the FBI,
the CIA, all military espionage and counterespionage services, the
Secret Service, all state police, and all local police forces. Each former
group had a certain amount of autonomy, but ultimately they were all a
part of the great law enforcement octopus which was the IABI,
presided over by Director John Warfield Moyer. For more than two
decades Moyer had dominated the American police system like a
colossus.
The two were inconspicuous young men of averages, deliberately chosen
to blend into a group—average of height, weight, coloring, facial
characteristics, and dressed to conform. Frank Pinell had come in
contact with them before, particularly in the past two months since his
latest and most serious fall. They could all have been clones from one
source.
When the cell door opened, one of them said, "Okay, Pinell, get your
things. You're on your way."
He had two suitcases. They were packed with all of his earthly
belongings, save the suit he wore. It was a conservative suit,
government issue, just slightly above usual prole standards. Even so, it
was as good as Franklin Pinell had ever worn. They were also to issue
him a thousand pseudo-dollars in the form of Swiss gold coinage, the
judge had told him. He had never had, at one time, such a sum. There
was something ironic about the fact that as a criminal deportee, the
State was sending him off in better shape than he had ever enjoyed as
a free citizen.
He took up the bags and went out into the corridor saying, "You mean
everything has already been cleared for me to emigrate to Morocco?"
"Tangier," one of them said. "It's not exactly Morocco. And as far as
allowing you to immigrate, they'd take Jack the Ripper in that town.
Come on, Pinell. I'm MacDonald and this is Roskin. We're your escort.
Just for the record, we're under orders to shoot if you try to escape
between here and the Tangier airport."
"My chum-pals," Frank muttered.
"And just for the record," Roskin added, "if you crack smart you'll wind
up with dentures."
MacDonald brought forth handcuffs and joined his left wrist to
Frank's right.
Frank said, "For Christ's sake, how can I carry my bags, shackled like
this?"
"You carry one of them under your left arm and the other by its
handle," Roskin told him. "You didn't expect us to act as your porters,
did you? If it's too much, you can leave one of them. They probably
don't contain anything worth having anyway. Whoever heard of a prole
with anything worth owning? He'd flog it to buy syntho-beer."
Frank looked at him coldly, even as he fumbled the smaller of the two
suitcases up under his left arm and took the other in his left hand. The
weight of the two put him somewhat off balance. He said, "I have a few
family mementos. My father wasn't exactly a prole."
MacDonald grunted disinterest. "Oh? Well, he didn't seem to pass
anything great along to you. What happened to him?"
"He was shot to death," Frank said flatly. "Are we or aren't we getting
out of this stinkhole?"
"Don't press your luck, smartass," Roskin told him, leading the way
down the prison corridor toward freedom.
At the Long Island shuttleport they were lobbed over to the
International Supersonic Port, which floated some twenty miles off the
coast, and from there took the next laserboost to a similar jetport
stationed off Lisbon. A shuttlecraft lobbed them over to Madrid. Next
stop: Tangier.
While Roskin was checking out their reservations, Mac-Donald and
Frank Pinell waited in the terminal.
The IABI man said, "Too bad you can't take time out to see Madrid,
Pinell. Great town for a fling. Prettiest mopsies in Common Europe. You
pick them up at Chicote's bar, where they've got the biggest collection
of guzzle in the world. Oh, you'd love Chicote's. They've got a jog of
Chinese brandy going back to the Ming Dynasty. Something like a
thousand years old."
"Maybe I'll see that guzzle museum someday."
The other laughed nastily. "Not you, chum-pal. You'll spend the rest of
your life in Taniger, knocking back rotgut absinthe—when you can
afford it. The asshole of creation, Tangier"
"How big is it?"
"A few square miles. Before you can get up a good dog trot, you're over
the International Zone boundary, which is taboo. Then the Moroccan
police throw you in the slammer. The dungeons in Morocco go back to
the days of Harun-al-Rashid. Not that you've ever heard of him."
"Calif of Baghdad in the Arabian Nights," Frank replied. "He never got
to Morocco."
Roskin came back with their reservations and hurried them up. "Royal
Air Maroc," he said. "This airline you've got to see to believe."
"Flying carpets?" Pinell muttered.
The flying equipment of Royal Air Maroc was obviously secondhand
from more prosperous lines, but the old-fashioned jet got them there.
They landed at the shabby airport on the outskirts of Tangier in the
afternoon.
The three had been the only passengers from Madrid, save for two
swarthy-looking types, both wearing red fezzes but garbed in European
dress, and wearing it as though it was a penance. On the way down
Frank had heard them talking in some language he had never heard
before.
He asked Roskin about it. "What do they speak in Tangier?"
"Just about everything," the other had told him, begrudging the
information. "Mostly a Rifian version of Arabic. But any native you're
apt to have anything to do with usually speaks either French or
Spanish." He snorted with contempt at his prisoner. "Do you speak
either?"
"I took some French," Frank said. He didn't add that it hadn't been
much. To hell with these guys.
Roskin removed the handcuffs at the foot of the aircraft's ladder and
the three waited for a few minutes until the plane's crew had brought
their luggage.
Only one customs examiner stood in the administration building. Frank
put his bags on the long, low table and, at the other's gesture, opened
them. The Moroccan official was two days unshaven, had a stub of a
cigarette in his mouth, and though he wore a uniform, it looked as
though it had never been laundered since leaving the factory. His shirt
was unbuttoned two buttons.
He dug roughly into Frank Pinell's things with dirty hands, making no
attempt at neatness. He came upon a sub-miniature Leica-Polaroid
camera which had once belonged to Frank's father and pocketed it.
"Hey, for Christ's sake," Frank exclaimed.
"Take it easy," Roskin told him. "And just hope he doesn't see anything
else he thinks is worth flogging."
Seething inwardly, Frank held his peace. His cursory ex-animations
completed, the customs officer took up a piece of blue chalk and
marked each bag with an Arabic scribble, then made a contemptuous
gesture of dismissal. He looked at the overnight bags that Roskin and
MacDonald were carrying, but the latter said something in French
which Frank didn't get, and the Moroccan shrugged and moved off.
"This way," MacDonald said, gesturing with his head toward an office
door.
There was no identity screen on the office door. The IABI men didn't
bother to knock, but simply pushed the door open and ushered their
prisoner in. The office beyond was as filthy as the large hall outside
and the fat official behind the sole desk was almost as disreputable in
appearance as the customs man. He had a warm bottle of some orange-
colored drink sitting to his left and from time to time took a swallow of
it. The day wasn't particularly hot, but his round, lardy face was oozing
oily sweat.
The three came up to the desk and MacDonald spoke in French, then
brought forth several papers and put them before the other. The
Mokkadem took them up and looked expressionlessly at Frank Pinell for
a long moment, then down at the papers. MacDonald took from his
pocket a small gold coin and put it on the desk. The Moroccan swept it
with a fat hand into his top desk drawer and grunted.
"That came from you," the IABI man told his charge. "We'll settle
later."
Frank sucked in breath but said nothing. It was their top, all he could
do was let them keep spinning it.
The Moroccan official took up a rubber stamp and banged it on several
of the papers, handed two of them to Frank, and put the rest in his
desk. He looked up at MacDonald, then over to Frank, then returned to
scanning the tattered pornographic magazine he had been perusing
when they entered.
Frank said, "You mean that's all? That's all that's involved in my
entering this country for good?"
They turned and left. As they went, Roskin said to him, "Not quite.
Tomorrow morning you go to police headquarters on the Place de
Mohammed Fifth and register. They'll want to see your papers,
photograph and fingerprint you, find out where you're staying. Every
time you move, you have to report your new address."
"That brings us to my money," Frank said.
MacDonald brought forth a booklet, opened it, and took a stylo from
the pocket of his shirt. "Sign this receipt," he said.
Frank scanned it quickly. One thousand pseudo-dollars in gold Swiss
francs.
As he signed, he said, "What do they use as a means of exchange in
Tangier?"
"They use currency," Roskin said. "In Morocco, it's the dirham. Five
dirham are approximately one pseudo-dollar."
MacDonald returned his receipt booklet to his pocket, brought forth
some small gold coins, and counted them out into Frank's outstretched
hand. "There's your severance pay," he said.
Frank said, "I owe you one for that bribe you gave the official."
"Never mind," the IABI man said, amused. "Let's say it's on me."
That set Frank back. He looked down at the small number of Swiss
coins in his hand and looked at one to check its denomination.
"How many francs to the pseudo-dollar?" he said, scowling.
"Two," Roskin told him.
Frank calculated quickly and looked up. "This comes to only two hundred
pseudo-dollars.''
MacDonald said to his fellow agent, "He's not only an intellectual but a
mathematician."
"I'm supposed to get a thousand," Frank said, his voice tight.
MacDonald scoffed at him. "What'd you do with a thousand pseudo-
dollars? Probably waste it. Go through it in a week. As it is, Roskin and I
will lay over in Madrid on our way home, and we'll hoist a couple of
drinks to you in Chicote's."
Frank stared from one of them to the other. "You miserable bastards,"
he said, his lips going white. He took a step forward.
The other two stepped back warily, and Roskin's hand slipped inside his
jacket.
MacDonald said, his voice low, "You know what the Moroccan police
would do if we shot you, here and now?
Exactly nothing; they couldn't care less. Your type is a dime a dozen in
Tangier."
As Frank glared, Roskin smiled. "Over there's the exit to the taxi
stand. The fare into town is five dirhams. Don't pay more. You can't
trust these gooks."
The two IABI men turned and left him standing there. Frank Pinell
glared after them for a long moment. There was nothing he could do.
Sure, once he got organized, he could write a letter of protest to
Judge John Worthington. And a fat pile of crap that'd get him. He'd
been silly enough to sign the receipt for one thousand pseudo-dollars,
hadn't he? Signed it before getting the funds in his hands.
He picked up his bags, made his way to the cambio booth, and
exchanged fifty Swiss francs into dirhams. The Moroccan money came
in coins rather than paper currency.
From the money exchange booth he went on through the door to the
taxi stand. The driver was a small, evil-looking type with a dirty rag of
an orange turban wrapped carelessly around his head. The garment he
wore looked like a seamless bathrobe made of brown homespun and
there were yellow, backless leather slippers on his feet.
Frank looked in the window of the ancient cab, even as he sharply
slapped the hand of an urchin who was trying to pick his pocket. He
said, "Do you speak English?"
The cabby's shifty eyes took him in, evidently deciding his potential
fare was American, rather than British. He said, "I talk everything,
Jack."
Frank put his bags in the back of the small cab and sat up front next to
the driver. The cabby evidently wasn't accustomed to bathing. Frank
rolled down the window and said, "Take me to the cheapest hotel in
Tangier."
The other grinned at him, displaying teeth like a broken-down picket
fence. "The cheapest European type hotel, eh, Jack?"
"The cheapest hotel, period," Frank said definitely.
"You ever slept in a caravansary, Jack? Very cheap. One dirham a night.
You sleep on a pile of straw, eh? Twenty other people in the same room,
eh? Donkeys and goats, sometimes maybe even a camel. Other people
are Rifs, down from the mountains to bring their things to the souk to
sell, eh? Very bad people, some of these Rifs. Stick a knife in you if
they figure you got ten, maybe twenty dirhams in your pockets."
Frank sighed. "All right, take me to the cheapest European hotel," he
said in surrender.
The cabby dropped the lift lever of the prehistoric cab and, when they
were aircushion borne, tromped on the accelerator, at first without
result. He kicked it viciously and they started up. The American
realized that the vehicle must be battery powered, rather than using
power packs or picking up juice from the highway. Obviously, the gravel
road wasn't automated. However, from what he had read, Morocco
wasn't energy-poor. At least a third of the southern stretches of the
country were in the Sahara and, in common with neighboring Algeria,
the Sherifian Empire of Morocco had been among the first to use
major solar power stations with Reunited Nations assistance. Endless
square miles of them had been built before the satellite solar power
stations began microwaving energy down from orbit.
He had thought himself prepared for poverty of the North African
variety, but he wasn't. He couldn't imagine any American being so
prepared. The thought came to him: could parts of Latin America have
been like this, before joining the United States of the Americas?
From time to time, they passed small communities consisting of single-
room dwellings made of wood scraps, cardboard, tin cans beaten flat,
small boulders, and mud. There was no pretense of streets, or even
alleys, obviously no running water, and garbage and refuse lay heaped in
filthy piles, often with naked children playing on their summits. Flies
and other insects droned in such swarms that Frank rolled up the
window again, despite the stench of his driver.
The cabby grinned evilly over at him. "Not so good, eh, Jack?"
Frank didn't answer.
After suburbs of such appalling filth, Tangier itself came as a surprise.
The part of it they entered was European in appearance, rather than
Moslem. That figured. The French had once owned this town on the
Straits of Hercules, even before the International Zone. And the
French might have loony logic, but they didn't live in midden heaps.
The driver assumed the role of travel guide. "This is Route de Tetouan,
eh, Jack? And this here we come into is Place d'Europe."
They proceeded to the right and merged into what street signs
proclaimed to be the Avenue de Madrid. At least, that's what the
French proclaimed. Frank couldn't decipher the Arabic scrawl.
They turned left on the Boulevard Mohammed Fifth. The city continued
to improve, and now there was considerably more traffic. Tangier had
no restrictions on surface traffic. From time to time they were even
held up by minor traffic jams. Most of the cars and trucks seemed as
elderly as the hovercab.
"Pasteur Boulevard, she the center of European town, eh? She just two
streets up. You like, I think. Cheap hotel."
They turned down Rue Moussai Ben Moussair, barely wide enough for
two vehicles to pass, and two blocks later pulled up before a sadly
decrepit four-story structure.
"Hotel Rome," the driver said expansively. "Very cheap. Almost clean.
Not much bugs, eh, Jack?"
Frank looked out blankly. "Where?" he said.
"She's on second floor, third floor, fourth floor. You don't pay more
than ten dirhams, eh? Luigi, he's a crook. He try to charge you more,
eh? You can't trust Italianos. Okay, Jack. That'll be fifteen dirhams,
Jack. Cheap. All the way from the airport."
Frank got out of his side of the cab, brought forth his Moroccan coins,
and handed six dirhams through the window. "The rate's five dirhams
and here's one more for a tip," he said.
The other was furious. "Fifteen, you cheap Yankee," he yelled.
"Five," Frank said flatly and reached for the door to the back of the
hovercab to recover his bags.
Before he could get it open, the vehicle surged ahead, wrenching his
hand from the doorknob and nearly knocking him sprawling.
His eyes bulging, Frank stared aghast at the hovercab careening up the
street with his luggage. He searched desperately for its license plate,
and could see none. His eyes darted around to other vehicles parked in
the street. None of them had license plates. Evidently, there was no
such thing in the International Zone of Tangier.
He groaned audibly. He knew nothing about the layout of this town. He
didn't know where he could find the police. He didn't know the cabby's
name. And the taxi looked like every other one he had seen in this—this
ripoff Mecca.
He stood there, staring after it, until the vehicle swerved around a
corner and was gone from sight.
Less than two hundred pseudo-dollars to his name and his every
belonging stolen.
He finally took a deep breath and turned. Now he could make out the
faded sign for the Hotel Rome. It was over a drab wooden stairway.
The ground floor of the building was taken up by two stores which
seemed almost identical. They resembled, in their window contents, the
general stores in American small towns of long ago, selling everything
from groceries to textiles, and toys, liquor, non-prescription drugs,
shaving supplies, and what not.
The lobby of the Hotel Rome was on the second floor. Only one window
overlooked the street. It was furnished with an aged reception desk,
keys openly displayed on a rack behind it, and several thoroughly
defeated chairs, their upholstery looking as though wild animals had
savaged it. In one of the chairs snored an obese man, as disreputable as
the furniture.
"Hey!"
The other opened first one eye, then the other. He brushed a fly from
the top of his almost bald head and looked accusingly at the man who
had awakened him. What do bald, fat Italians dream of, Frank
wondered.
"Who do I see about getting a room here?"
"Me," the other grunted, somehow getting his bulk erect. "I'm Luigi.
This place, it's mine."
Frank said, "I want the cheapest room you've got."
Luigi took him in, his plump face expressionless. "You got no luggage?
You pay right now. Twenty dirhams."
"Ten," Frank said wearily, fishing in his pocket for two five-dirham
coins.
"This way," Luigi said, shrugging.
The room was on the same floor as the lobby. It had one primitive
electric bulb hanging from the ceiling, one sagging bed, one straight
chair, one chipped dresser with a drawer missing. No bath, nor running
water. Not even a window. There was a toilet down the hall, but no bath
there, either. Seemingly, the tenants of the Hotel Rome didn't bathe,
unless they managed a sponge bath out of the filthy lavatory, crammed
next to the toilet bowl.
When Luigi was gone, Frank Pinell looked about his room.
"Home at last," he said acidly, running a hand down over his long face.
In another part of town, a stranger to Frank Pinell was speaking into his
pocket transceiver. He was saying, "He pulled in on the three o'clock
from Madrid. At the airport, those sons of bitches, MacDonald and
Roskin, pulled their usual little romp. He got into Hamad's cab and
Hamari took him to Luigi's and was able to take off with his luggage. He
must be running scared by now. It looks as though we've found our
patsy."
Chapter Three: Roy Cos
Roy Cos looked out over the small, shabby hall in Baltimore with its
pitiful group, members of the Industrial Workers of the World—
"Wobblies," in their own jargon. Inwardly, he felt depressed and weary.
It was the same old story: there were sixteen in the audience. At least
ten of these were either Wobblies or sympathizers who had heard or
read all that he had to say a hundred times. They were there not to
learn but to give him support. Another two or three, looking bored, had
drifted in from the street out of mild curiosity, or because they had
nothing else to do. Another trio, seated together at the rear with
identical condescending sneers, were hecklers come to give him a bad
time. Only one stranger, who sat in the last row on one of the rickety
folding chairs, looked at all like promising material. He was a small man,
better dressed than the prole audience, and he had a notepad on his
lap. From time to time he took notes. But for all Roy Cos knew, the man
could be an IABI agent checking out just how subversive the speaker
might be.
Roy took in the tattered banners which the committee members had
hung about the walls. SOLIDARITY! UNITE! And, the longest of them
all, PEOPLES OF THE WORLD UNITE. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO
LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS. Roy Cos knew that such signs had once
read, WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE. But there were no workers
any more, for all practical purposes. Over ninety percent of the
population was on GAS. Two percent were affluent members of the
upper class, who did not worry about employment. And five percent
were actually all that were needed to produce an abundance of goods
and supply the services of this automated, computerized society. And
they, the professional technicians, engineers, scientists, doctors, and
teachers, seldom thought of themselves as workers. Their pay was such
that they identified with the upper class, rather than the proles on
GAS.
Roy Cos, a second-generation radical, was in his early forties. He was an
outwardly average, unprepossessing man, faded brown of hair, hazel of
eye, earnest of expression, but projecting a hint that somehow he
realized that life had passed him by and that his efforts were
meaningless in the long run. He was some ten pounds overweight. Too
many hours studying, too many hours sitting around tables, arguing
dialectics, too many hours talking, talking, talking, largely to people not
really interested in blueprints of Utopia.
He was saying: "And is this the final destiny of man? The overwhelming
majority living on the verge of poverty? The history of the human race
has been a hard and proud one. Since first our ancestors emerged from
the caves, we have fought upward. And from the beginning we have
been the thinking animals, the tool users. Who first utilized fire, we
cannot know. What early men first developed the hand ax, the knife,
the spear, the bow and arrow is unknown to us. But each generation
that came along added its contribution to human knowledge and we
slowly acquired agriculture, the domestication of animals, the wheel,
the hoe, the plow. And as each generation emerged, its geniuses now
forgotten, our knowledge grew. The arts and the sciences began to
emerge."
"Great!" one of the three cynical listeners called out. "So what? Get to
the point."
Roy nodded and went on. "The point is that all of these developments,
this accumulated knowledge down through the centuries, is the common
heritage of all mankind. They are not the property of a few, but of the
race as a whole. A modern, automated factory is possible only because
these tools were handed down to us over the centuries. The products
of modern society should be the common property of the race, not of a
mere fraction of it. And if this is true, where is justice today when a
few live idle, in luxury, while the rest of us are forgotten? As John Ball,
centuries ago, put it in a sermon to English poorer class rebels:
" 'When Adam dalfe and Eve span Who was thanne a gentil man?' "
The stranger made a note on his pad. He was thin, gray-faced, probably
in his mid-forties, and Roy largely directed his talk toward the man. If
you could make one convert at a typical Wobbly meeting you were doing
fine. One valid convert, potentially an activist, would more than pay for
an otherwise depressing evening.
He went on to explain the Wobbly program: organizing all presently
employed workers so that they could use the only clout that really
counted—the control of production, distribution, communications.
When the question period came, the chairman took over again. No one
seemed prepared to ask an initial question of the speaker. As usual, in
such a case, one of the Wobbly members stood up and started the ball
rolling.
He said, "Since so few people support the Wobbly program, won't it
take one hell of a long time for it to ever come about?"
Roy took over the podium again, nodded, and said, "Good question. And
the answer is, no… not necessarily. What counts is the correctness of
the program, the extent to which it solves our common problems. Our
support can grow very quickly, given a breakdown in the current system
and an obvious need for change. Take the American Revolution of 1776,
for instance. Had you suggested to the average colonist in 1774 that he
needed to throw off the rule of King George in favor of an independent
union, he probably would have taken a patriotic swing at you. But the
need was there and, overnight, a handful of farseeing men like Tom
Paine, Sam Adams, Jefferson, pointed out the way. The revolution
wasn't long in coming."
One of the hecklers held up his hand. When Roy Cos recognized him, he
came to his feet and yelled, louder than was called for, "Aren't you
people just a bunch of soreheads? There's only so many jobs around
these days. The computers select the best men and women to hold
them. Those that get jobs, deserve the extra money. The rest of us are
lucky to get GAS. It's a pretty good system when everybody eats
regular and is taken care of, even if he's not chosen for a job. What
the hell are you beefing about?"
Roy nodded, and paused a moment before answering. "In the first place,
let's not give those computers more credit than
they deserve. Science is great but it mustn't be a sacred cow.
Computers can be programmed into shortcomings."
"Like what!" one of the hecklers called out. His friends laughed, backing
him. Several of the Wobblies, seated down front, turned and glared at
them.
Roy said, "Well, let's take a couple of scientists that the computers
would have passed by. Two of their big requirements are a good
education and a top-notch Ability Quotient. Thomas Edison had only a
couple of years of formal education—he never got through grammar
school. The computers wouldn't have picked him for a job. Steinmetz
was a hunchback cripple, in spite of his I.Q., and would never have
gotten a high Ability Quotient, much of which depends on physical
attributes.
"But science isn't the only thing. Lincoln had practically no formal
schooling and wouldn't have been chosen. Winston Churchill was a
rotten student. Among writers, Jack London had very little schooling
and was an alcoholic from his teens onward. O. Henry, poorly educated,
also had a prison record. Scott Fitzgerald was a dropout at Princeton
and never did learn much grammar, spelling, or punctuation. Hemingway
finished high school but certainly took no honors there. Let's face it:
few outstanding artists, musicians, or actors would stand up to the
scrutiny of the computers. No, I'm afraid the computers are not yet
programmed for judging the arts. And we Wobblies look forward to
going further into the arts as well as the sciences. Millions of citizens
could be employed in the arts."
There were few questions. Roy had been hoping for one or more from
the note-taker in the back row. You could usually tell the extent of a
newcomer's real interest by his questions.
Following the meeting, while the balance of the small audience drifted
from the hall, the membership gathered around to shake his hand and
congratulate him. As a National Organizer, he was used to the plaudits
of his fellows who were unable to express themselves in public speaking.
So far as he was concerned, the meeting was a flop and he could see
that the chairman felt the same way. Not even the little stranger in
the rear had remained.
When the other members had gone their way, the chairman asked Roy
if he'd like to come home with him for pseudo-coffee and talk. He was
the local Group Organizer, a good man, but Roy was aware of the fact
that the man's wife was rabidly against the Wobblies, in fact was a
militant member of the United Church who considered all radicals
slated for hell. Besides, Roy Cos was emotionally exhausted. His
depression had been growing over a period of weeks.
"No thanks, Jim," he said. "I think I'll get on to bed. I have to take the
vac tube to Newark tomorrow for another meeting. And you know
Newark. The membership there is so apathetic they probably haven't
gotten around to hiring a hall. I'll wind up on a soapbox in the park and
damned few people are out in the parks anymore."
"Yeah," Jim said. "Only those who have no place else to go and screw.
Well, see you on your next trip around, Comrade."
Roy said wearily, "Jim, for God's sake: please, please, don't call me
comrade. I hate the word. If you use it, ninety-nine people out of a
hundred think you're a Euro communist, or some other reactionary
bastard."
They separated at the door and Roy Cos headed for his third-class
hotel. His mind was empty.
The streets were deserted as usual at this time of night, especially of
the few vehicles that were allowed surface traffic. He was surprised
when two figures materialized to either side of him and he could hear
the footsteps of a third close behind him. His first inclination was to
think it was three of the organization members who happened to be
going in his direction.
The voice of the one to his right disillusioned him on that score. It
snarled, "We didn't like what you had to say, chum-pal."
Roy's mind raced for options, but found none. He continued to stroll at
the same speed. "Sorry," he said. "It was what I believe." He had been
through this sort of thing before. He expected a beating. Probably not
bad enough to hospitalize him, this time, since they didn't seem
particularly heated up, but probably enough of a working over to keep
him from the Newark meeting.
The other said, "We reckon you need a little lesson in Americanism."
"Your version of…" Roy began, but was interrupted by a heavy blow
from the man on his left, then another in his back, even as he reeled
sideways.
Neither blow was crippling, but between them, they threw him against
the wall of the decrepit building, so that he banged his head against
the bricks. Stars flashed before his eyes, red heat bloomed in his
brain, and he began to fall. The pain was such that he hardly felt the
kick in his side. The three were surging in, babbling incoherently about
their anger, their frustrations, their hate of the nonconformist. All
three were younger and in all probability in better shape than he. His
chances of meaningful resistance were all but nil. He struggled to bring
his arms up over his head, unable to restrain a groan of pain—though he
tried.
More kicks came. They weren't pros and the beating was less damaging
than it might have been. His best bet was to wait it out, curling into a
fetal crouch to guard his head and groin.
But then came a shout and a pounding of feet. "Halt! Get away from
that man! Halt or I'll fire!"
Cursing in surprise, the three were off in as many directions.
Panting, he staggered erect and tried to assess the damages. Except
for bruises, there weren't any. His three assailants hadn't had the
time for a complete mauling. He brushed at his street-grimed clothing
with shaking hands.
He looked around. Down the avenue he heard another order to halt but,
unless his rescuer was actually willing to shoot, he wasn't going to have
much luck.
Only a few doors down was the entrance to a prole autobar. He
staggered toward it, still brushing his jacket. Just before he entered,
he straightened up as best he could, but the attempt was needless. The
sorry little bistro was empty of customers.
He fumbled himself into a chair at the first table he could get to and
for a time sat there, catching his breath. For all he knew, the police
officer would return and pick him up on general principles, and before
he could make adequate explanations, he might wind up in the banger.
He might even louse up his schedule and miss the Newark meeting.
He brought forth his Universal Credit Card, put it into the table
payment slot, and dialed a syntho-beer. He knew that his monthly GAS
credits were low and there were several days to go before next
month's deposit was credited to his account, but he needed that drink.
Largely, national organizers of the Wobblies had to be self-supporting.
The membership made minor contributions to the National Fund, but
since they were all on GAS themselves and needed their credits for
their own survival, it couldn't be much.
The beer had come and he had taken his initial swallow before the
newcomer entered the autobar, looked around, and then descended on
his table.
Roy Cos brought his gaze up. He had expected a uniform, but the other
was in ordinary garb. Then Roy recognized him. He was the note-taking
stranger.
The gray-faced man couldn't have weighed more than fifty kilos. He
wore a wispy mustache, in a day when facial hair was long out of style,
and his faded eyes had a perpetual squint. He slid into the chair
opposite Roy.
Roy said, in resignation, "I thought you were an IABI man. But thanks,
anyway. You came up like the Seventh cavalry rescuing the wagon train."
"Who, me?" the other said in false innocence, dialing for a drink. He
looked at Roy's beer. "You look as though you could use something
stronger than that. How about a whiskey?"
"Can't afford it. You mean you're not a cop?"
"No, I'm a reporter. And I can afford it." He dialed for the whiskey,
his own credit card in the table slot.
Roy eyed him. "What was all that about, 'Halt, or I fire'?"
The other grunted sour amusement and fished a package of cigarettes
from a side pocket. "If I'd shouted, 'Halt or I'll write,' they'd be
kicking my butt right now. I figured they'd hardly hang around
demanding to see my badge."
He stuck a smoke into his thin pale mouth and lit it with a lighter. To
Roy's surprise, it wasn't marijuana, but tobacco. You couldn't mistake
the odor of this forbidden narcotic.
Roy said, "Well, thanks again. You think you ought to be smoking like
that in a public place?"
"There's nobody here but us. What happened?"
"You know as much about it as I do. I suppose it was those three
hecklers. Who in the hell are you?"
The other extended a scrawny hand. "Forrest Brown. Call me Forry. I'm
from the local area Tri-Di news—stuff that you don't get on the
national networks."
As they shook hands, Roy said, "You're a news commentator?"
Brown shook his head. The smoke drifted up his face from the
cigarette that drooped in his mouth, making him squint still more.
"Just a leg man. Oh, I go on video occasionally, when one of the regular
men is off. But I never reached commentator level. I suppose I wasn't
pretty enough. You've got to project personality to hit commentator
level."
The center of the table had sunk and returned with the whiskey. Roy
took a glass, still shaky, and said in defiance, "Here's to the revolution,"
and knocked it all back.
The gray little man nodded and swallowed a third of his own booze. "You
think it'll ever come—at this rate?"
Roy ignored that and focused on his job again with professional ease.
"You were going to do a story on the Wobbly movement?"
The other shook his head. "No, actually I just stopped by your meeting
from sheer boredom. I had nothing else to do."
Roy was bitter. "The conspiracy of silence, eh? It's like pulling teeth to
get any of our meetings or demands into the news. But what should 1
expect? The news media are owned by the enemy."
But Forry Brown shook his head again. "You people overemphasize that.
Oh, it applies to a certain extent. Word from above is to not give too
much coverage to any minority organizations. Not just your Wobblies,
but the Neo-Nihilists, the Libertarians, the Luddites, the Gay Libbers,
and all the rest. But there's no taboo, no conspiracy of total silence.
The thing is, you people aren't news. Nobody cares about your
programs. They want something exciting. You're not exciting. A good
murder, some scandal about the latest Tri-Di sex symbol, government
corruption, one of the bush wars in Africa or Asia, even a hurricane or
earthquake, bring in more viewers than some yawner about a Wobbly
meeting attended by fifteen people. But that isn't the big reason I'm
not filing a story on you, even after you were attacked by members of
your audience. If they'd killed you, maybe somebody would have a
story." He took another cigarette and lit it from the butt of his last.
Roy Cos forgot his bruises temporarily and said, "Damn it,
I'd almost be willing. How can we present our program to the people if
we can't get any media coverage?"
The little man's grimace was sour. "Wish I could help you, but just this
morning the computers spelled me down. I'm surprised that I was able
to hang on this long, even as a second-rate legman in a backwater Tri-Di
area. It's not enough being selected by the damned computers for a
job. Each year a new batch of journalism graduates apply for positions.
As you said in your talk, over ninety percent of the population is
unemployed. We who have jobs try desperately to hang onto them, and
sometimes the experience we've accumulated helps out. But sooner or
later some new kid with a higher Ability Quotient steps into your
boots." He shrugged. "I've been expecting the axe for a long time."
Roy Cos had never held a job in his life—not that he hadn't religiously
applied each year. He said, in compassion, "I'm sorry. What happens
now? Do you get a pension or something from your Tri-Di network?"
The other snorted and finished his drink. "Hell, no. I go back on GAS.
Theoretically, I should've saved a portion of the pseudo-dollar credits
I earned while I was working and invested them in Variable Basic
government stock, or one of the private corporations. The dividends
would supplement my GAS." He snorted again, took his cigarette from
his mouth and looked at it. "I'm afraid I developed some expensive
habits. Lady Nicotine doesn't come cheap these days."
The Wobbly organizer took him in. He had never met anyone before
who was actually hooked on tobacco. He didn't move in the circles that
could afford it. He also had the usual prejudice against the use of the
poisonous weed.
Roy said, "Why didn't you ever take the cure?"
Brown laughed dryly. "Because, once you take it, you're allergic to
nicotine for the rest of your life. I guess I didn't really want to be
cured. I like to eat better than you proles can afford, like to drink
better, travel better. I even took a trip around the world once and I've
been in Europe a couple of times. Free rocket shuttle fare as a
newsman, but the other expenses were largely on me. You ought to see
some of the bordellos they have in the East." He sighed. "That's one
thing they'll never automate. Knock on wood."
As a Wobbly, Roy Cos didn't approve of prostitution any more than he
did of the deadly nicotine, so underneath was a certain smug
satisfaction when he said, "So now you're in the same position as all the
rest of us. You should join the Wobbly movement."
Brown ground out his cigarette and brought forth another. "Not me,"
he said. "What I've got to do is dream up some other manner of
supporting my vices."
Roy switched subjects, knowing the unlikelihood of the ex-newsman
ever accomplishing that. "Any idea how we could get more media
coverage? It's a sore point with us. When those old American
revolutionists wrote the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, it never
occurred to them that freedom of speech and of press and assembly
would one day become meaningless. In those days you got up in the
village square, or the town meeting, and stated your beliefs. If your
program had merit, it was probably accepted. Starting a newspaper was
in the range of almost any individual, or certainly of any small group.
But today, unless you can get on Tri-Di, you simply aren't heard.
Freedom of the press is fine; sure, you're perfectly free to get out a
little magazine and circulate it as best you can. But who reads it? A few
hundred people, most of whom already have the same beliefs you do.
Freedom of speech is meaningless if all you can do is stand on the beach
and shout your message to the wind."
Forrest Brown thought about it, squinting through curls of smoke. He
said finally, "You've got to have enough money to buy Tri-Di time, but
above all, you've got to be newsworthy. You've got to have something
that makes people want to listen to you, watch you."
"Great," Roy said sarcastically. "And how do I accomplish that?"
The newsman, half joking, said, "Start a religion. Become a Tri-Di star.
Take out a Deathwish Policy."
The Wobbly organizer scowled at him. "What for?"
"You'd have the credits to buy Tri-Di time. Deathwishers are news.
Everybody'd be in a tizzy wondering how long it'd be before you got
hit. There'd be standing room only at your hall lectures. You'd be out in
the open and they'd come in hopes that they'd be there when the
Graf's boys, or whoever, got to you. Something like in the old days in
Spain and Latin
America, where they'd pony up for bullfight tickets in hopes they'd see
the matador gored to death."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Roy said. "What's a Deathwish
Policy?"
Forry grunted and dialed another two whiskeys before lighting a new
smoke off the old. "Oh," he said, "just a jargon term we use in the news
game. You've probably never heard it. You have your life insured in
return for having an international drawing account for a million pseudo-
dollar credits continually at your disposal—for as long as you live."
"Never heard of… oh, wait a minute. I guess I did. Something in the
news about six months ago. Somebody was blown up with a grenade or
something. His life had been insured for something like five million
pseudo-dollars only a few days before. I forget the details. I don't
usually follow crime news."
"It's crime, all right," Forry said, putting his thumbprint on the table's
payment screen to pay for the new drinks. His credit card was still in
the slot. "The thing is, so far, the law hasn't been able to get at them.
It's too complicated. Most of the insured are Americans. But you never
sign the policy with an American company. The outfit that's going to
collect the benefits is usually based in the Bahamas, or Malta, or
Tangier, or somewhere else where practically anything goes. They shop
out the deal to Lloyd's of London, where they'll insure anything—
dancer's legs, a violinist's fingers. Hell, they'll insure an outdoor
entertainment against loss due to rain. So you've got four countries
involved: the insured is usually a citizen of the States, the beneficiary
is in the Bahamas or wherever, Lloyds of London is in England, and your
credits come from Switzerland. For that matter, you might say five
different countries are involved, since it's said that the Graf has his
headquarters in Liechtenstein."
"Now, wait a minute," Roy Cos said, taking up his new drink and
swallowing part of it. For the first time in years, he felt the itch of
intrigue. "Start at the beginning."
Forry shrugged thin shoulders. "You sign a contract that grants you
what amounts to an unlimited credit account for as long as you live. If
and when you die, the beneficiary collects the benefits. The company
you've signed with pays huge daily premiums. It's a gamble, as all
insurance has always been since the days when Phoenician ships set sail
from Tyre to Cadiz for a cargo of tin. The insurer was gambling that
the ship would get back safely and the insuree was gambling that the
ship would sink. Well, in this case, the insuree is gambling that you'll die
before the premiums paid mount up to more than the benefits he'll
collect when you kick off. Lloyd's is gambling the other way: that you'll
live so long that the premiums accumulated are higher than the life
insurance benefits."
Roy looked at him blankly. "But suppose you lived for years? And you
have a million pseudo-dollar account to draw on to any extent you wish?
Hell, the company that's the beneficiary would go broke paying the
premiums plus your expenditures."
Forry Brown laughed shortly. "Don't be a dizzard. From the moment
that policy goes into effect, you're on the run. Some of the insured
don't live the first day out."
Roy stared, then tried a tenative smile. "You're kidding, of course."
"Yeah? The Grafs hit men are the best-trained pros in the world. He
usually gets the contract, I understand."
Roy slumped down into his chair. "Jesus," he said. "Who'd be silly
enough to sign up for that?"
The newsman let smoke dribble from his nostrils. "Somebody who had
already decided to commit suicide but couldn't bring himself to do it
and decided he might as well go out in a burst of glory, living in one of
the biggest hotels in one of the swankest resorts in the world, drinking
champagne and gorging himself with caviar.''
"I can see that, but nobody else would sign."
Forry finished his second drink and said slowly, "You underestimate
human desperation. Take some prole who's fed up with living right at
the edge of poverty on GAS. He figures he might as well live it up for a
few weeks, or hopefully months. Frankly, this guy's a dreamer. His
chances of lasting for any length of time at all are just about nil. Most
of them think they've figured out some dodge to beat the odds, some
special gimmick. They haven't. They can't."
"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 pseudo-dollars, 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 pseudo-dollars. 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."
Fony 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 Fony Brown said softly, "A million pseudo-dollars. 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 corners
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
Massachussetts. 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 Green-point 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-modern side, and
Hamp was somewhat taken aback by its feminity. 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. "Goon."
"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 become 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."
He took a sizable swallow of his drink and she got up to replenish his
glass, bringing what remained with her to the cocktail table.
"In actuality," she told him, "I've become most interested in you blacks
and what you're doing to fight back. I want to know what I can do to
help."
Hamp was feeling the soothing qualities of the drink now, and stretched
his legs before him in comfort. "Well," he said, "you've undoubtedly
read most of it in our literature. Blacks were brought over as slaves. At
least a slave had comparative security. As valuable property, he was
clothed, fed, sheltered, and given some medical care. After the Civil
War freed him, he worked for pay and if he became ill, injured, or old,
he was fired and had no way of maintaining himself."
"Weren't lots of whites treated the same way?"
"Some," he admitted. "But blacks could take it for granted. By the
1950s they began to revolt nationwide. They held parades and rallies,
fought segregation in the courts, the whole bit. It helped, but not
enough. By the 1970s, more teenage blacks were unemployed than ever,
to the point of fifty percent in some cities. Twice as many blacks as
whites dropped out of school in their early teens."
She leaned forward. "So how do you expect to change that now?"
Hamp nodded, took another swallow, then leaned forward and poured
more from the mixing glass. He said, "The trouble was, they were too
polite, too easygoing about their fight for equality. They paraded and
protested and petitioned and tried to vote for politicians, sometimes
blacks, who supposedly supported their cause. The politicians must have
had many a private laugh, including the black ones, who were just as
crooked as their white colleagues. In short, our people turned the
other cheek, rather than really fighting. When such outfits as the Ku
Klux Klan came into their segregated areas to burn their homes,
schools, and churches, they most often ran in terror. When some
militant blacks were killed, they did no more than protest to the police
and the Civil Liberties Union, which gave them some support."
There was a shine in Lee Garrett's eyes. "So how have you changed
your program now?"
He moved over, slightly closer to her, and looked into her face, his own
very serious. "Now we fight back—a tooth for a tooth, as the Good
Book says. We no longer run in terror when the Klan dons its silly white
sheets and begins burning crosses. Today the Klan hardly exists as an
active organization. They're the ones who are afraid now. We've
combined with Chicanes, Puerto Ricans, Amerinds, Jews, and so on. And
we fight on every level, from the streets to the senate floor, and we
never give an inch in any field. We return, blow for blow, every intrusion
on our rights as American citizens… and members in good standing of
the human race."
"You accept conflict," she said.
He moved still closer to her, his face slightly slack, as though from the
drink, and put an arm around her shoulders. At that she stiffened
slightly.
"Yes," he said. "We fight. No longer do we bob apologetically and call all
white men, 'Captain,' or say, 'Yes, suh.' No longer do we step down off
the curb when a white comes along. We'll fight that to the death."
"You mean, you've actually participated in… killing people who stand in
the way of minority rights?"
He moved still closer and scowled his surprise. "Oh, of course not. A
few extreme cases have taken place—blacks who have returned gunfire,
that sort of thing. But not League members. We don't condone violence.
That would just give the enemy an opening, a wedge to get at us." He
moved closer still.
She tried to maneuver away from him, without being too obvious about
it, but his arm was a restraint around her shoulders.
She got out, "Yes… but, you just said that now you fought back."
His dark eyes were hotly on her own blue ones now. There was a slur in
his voice. "That was, uh, figuratively speaking, not literally meant."
She was breathing in short gasps as his left hand came forward and
rested on her belly. Suddenly, her eyes widened in fear and she pushed
back violently. "Don't… don't!" she shrilled. "Let me loose, you nigger!"
Hamp stood up and looked down at her, shrinking against the far end of
the couch. He laughed. Gone were all signs of his drinking.
She panted, "What are you laughing at, you black bastard?"
He rubbed the knuckles of his left hand over his mouth and, laughing
still, said, "You make a hell of an agent provocateur, Ms. Garrett. I'm
afraid you're the victim of your own prejudiced beliefs. You see, one of
the oldest wive's tales is the one about blacks lusting for the fair white
bodies of Caucasians. On the face of it, it's nonsense. Didn't it ever
occur to you that possibly you're not attractive to blacks? Your fine
blonde hair might lack appeal. Didn't it ever occur to you that blacks
might prefer brunette beauty, that perhaps your nose might be much
too thin, your complexion—forgive me—washed out, perhaps all but
repulsive? If I had to pick the most attractive whites, it would be the
girls of southern Italy and Sicily, of Andalusian Spain, or Greece.
Brunettes with dark complexions. But Scandinavians? No thank you, I
don't screw blondes."
"You're disgusting," she said contemptuously. "Every word of this is
being taped, of course."
He laughed again, preparatory to leaving. "I suspected it. I always
suspect it. But you see, Ms. Garrett, I have said nothing to you that
isn't to be found in our literature—our leaflets, pamphlets, and books."
"You said that these days you're fighting back. An eye for an eye and
so forth."
He smiled at her. "All figurative, Ms. Garrett, as I pointed out to you.
The League does not condone violence. And now, thank you for the
excellent martinis, and good day."
He turned and left.
On his way down to the ground floor he wondered who had sent her.
Possibly the IABI? Or, just possibly, she might have been working on
her own. He had been poorly managed, whoever had set it up.
Undoubtedly, they had thought that her obvious wealth and position
would immediately gain her access to the higher echelons of the Anti-
Racist League, where she could infiltrate and secure inside information.
He shook his head again. They simply couldn't realize that the
League, although it had a scattering of white members, wasn't
particularly impressed by either their whiteness or money. The usual
militant in the League was better educated than most, though often
self-educated, and was dedicated, disciplined, and competent.
He retraced his way to the transportation terminal and retrieved the
suitcase he had checked earlier. He took the first ' centy-seater
scheduled for Manhattan's Grand Central Terminal. On his way, he
brought forth his transceiver and reported to the National Activities
Committee the results of his contact with Lee Garrett.
He hailed an automated hovercab, the only vehicle allowed on the
surface in the city, and dialed a renowned men's store. Manhattan was
still a center for those who ignored the ultra-markets and resorted to
privately owned swank shops.
There, he quickly disillusioned the clerk, who eyed his color, shabby
suit, and battered suitcase, saying, "I'm just in from the Coast where
I've been roughing it. gathering material for my latest novel. I want a
complete utitfit in which I can walk out of here. The very best, of
course."
"Oh, yes, sir," the other said. "I'm sure we can accommodate you."
When Hamp left, an hour or so later, he not only wore the latest in
expensive men's wear, but also had two new pieces of imported British
luggage. He had paid with an International Credit Card issued on a
Berne, Switzerland bank.
The boys carrying his luggage took everything out to the curb and
summoned another hovercab for him. He dialed and settled back. His
destination turned out to be one of the taller, more impressive office
buildings the island boasted. The cab had been directed to a minor
entrance on a side street. He entered alone. There was no doorman nor
any other building employee nor resident to be seen. He brought a key
ring from his pocket, selected a small silver key, and opened the door
of an elevator.
The elevator compartment, without a command as to his destination,
accelerated not too quickly but for a lengthy period before reaching its
ultimate speed. He was able to adjust without bending his knees.
He emerged finally into a large office reception room which was
unoccupied and strolled across it to a heavy door.
Though metallic, it was attractively well done to disguise its strength.
He opened it with another key.
Beyond was a roomy office with four desks and beyond that, a still
more ample one with a single large desk. He passed through both of the
silent rooms and on into an extensive terrace apartment.
Obviously at ease, he made his way to a master bedroom, where he put
down his bags and stripped, then entered the bath, which had a
connecting dressing room. In the bath, he used still another small key
to open a medical cabinet, from which he brought forth a hypodermic
needle, a small bottle, and a jar.
Expertly, he loaded the syringe and injected himself. He then sat
before the dressing-room mirror and removed the contact lenses from
his eyes, revealing their natural dark blue. He put the fingernails of his
two little fingers into his nostrils and brought forth two ring-like metal
spreaders which altered the shape of his nose. He returned to the
bathroom, took up the jar he had taken from the medical cabinet, and
entered the shower stall. When he had adjusted the spray to his
satisfaction he began vigorously to shampoo his hair with dabs of the
contents of the jar. He entered the shower with black wiry hair and
left it with darkish red hair, considerably straighten and looking like a
young athlete's crew cut.
He checked in a mirror, found that the injection hadn't begun to work.
In a white silk kimono and matching slippers, he shuffled back into the
living room and the extensive study.
He sat at the desk and flicked on the TV phone, activating the stud
which would prevent his own face from being transmitted, punched two
numbers, and waited until the screen lit up. He said to the subservient
face there, "Simmons, I shall be in residence, here in Manhattan, for an
indefinite period. Please summon the staff immediately. I wish to dine
here this evening. Inform Henri that I expect him to surpass himself. I
have been subjected to atrocious food for longer than I care to think
about."
"Very good, sir."
The face of Simmons faded and Horace Hampton punched two more
numbers. The new face was that of an efficient businessman
somewhere in his early middle years.
Hamp said, "Barry, I'm back in the States, here in Manhattan. Have one
of the office teams assembled. Include yourself and, let me see, Ted,
and, ah, Lester. Among other things, we'll have to do some immediate
work on the investments in Lagrange Five and the Asteroid Islands."
"Yes, sir," Barry said. "Sir, something has come up. I tried to contact
you by every means but… well, with the usual results. It seems we have
a situation fraught with…"
"Tell me about it when you get here," Hamp said brusquely. "What's the
enjoyment in being a recluse if every senior member of your staff can
get in touch with you every time he thinks an emergency has surfaced?"
"Yes, sir." There was resigned disapproval in the other's face.
Hamp faded him off, arose from his chair, and stretched his shoulder
muscles. In spite of the time of day, he went over to the bar and
brought forth a bottle of stone age Armagnac and a snifter glass. He
poured a sizable jolt, then went over to the bookshelves, searching for
a moment before selecting a copy of Cheikh Anta Diop's The African
Origin of Civilization in the original French, and returned with it to his
chair.
In the next half hour he went through a good quarter of the brandy,
several times checking with the mirror. At the end of that period he
was satisfied with what he saw. The face that looked back at him was
that of, say, a well-tanned Frenchman.
He went back into the study and again sat at his restricted phone
screen. He punched for a foreign call and then twice again.
The face that appeared was a twin of his own, including dark blue eyes,
crew-cut reddish hair, and the well-tanned face of a European playboy.
Hamp said briskly, "Jim, I'm taking over for an indefinite time,
probably a month or so. Go to ground. Assume your usual identity. I'll
get in touch when I need you."
The other grinned. "Any suggestions?"
"You might try the Malta retreat. But be on immediate call."
"You're the boss," Jim told him. "You slave driver." The face of his
stand-in faded.
Chapter Five: Franklin Pinell
Frank Pinell looked about the shabby, windowless room of the Hotel
Rome in the International Zone of Tangier. Ten dirhams a day. Two
pseudo-dollars. Cheap, perhaps, for any shelter at all, but with the cost
of food, his bankroll would melt away in short order.
It was late afternoon, but he'd had lunch on the jet with his two
escorts and wasn't yet hungry. The thing to do was to get out and start
to make contacts. If there were jobs to be had, he was going to have to
find one soonest. He had only been here for a couple of hours but he
had seen what poverty was like in the old, old town of Tangier and
wanted no part of it. Seemingly, there was no sort of government relief
whatever for the poor; certainly nothing like GAS.
It was orientation time; he must contact his fellow English-speaking
residents. He went into the hall, taking the key that Luigi had given
him, locking the door behind. Why, he couldn't say. He had left nothing
in the room. He had nothing to leave. On his way out, he hung the key on
the rack behind the desk. On the face of it, anyone coming along could
have taken it down, or any of the others, and stripped the place. But
strip it of what? He doubted that any of the other tenants of the
fleabag had much more in the way of possessions than he had.
He walked down the rickety stairs to the ground level and looked up and
down Rue Moussa Ben Moussair, as drab a street as he had ever seen.
The cab driver who had stolen his luggage had told him that Pasteur
Boulevard, the town center, was two blocks up. He headed left, reached
Rue Goya, turned left again. He carefully checked his route, having no
desire to get lost.
Two blocks up, Rue Goya came into Pasteur Boulevard and the
immediate change couldn't have been more definite. Its two or three
blocks could have been directly out of a swank Florida or Southern
California resort. The cars, many chauffeur driven, were the latest
from Common Europe, the Americas, and the Asiatic League. The
pedestrians were largely Europeans with a sprinkling of Orientals and a
few North Africans. All seemed prosperous—the suits of the men had
been cut in London, Rome, Manhattan; the clothes of the women in
Paris, Budapest, Copenhagen, or Los Angeles. The women were strictly
Tri-Di shows. Most of them could have passed as the latest sex symbols
of the entertainment world, or as fashion models. Every hair seemed to
be in place. Quite a few tripped along behind poodles and Pomeranians.
Surprised by the opulence, Frank turned left on the boulevard and
walked along slowly, staring into the shop windows. Save for such
centers as Manhattan in his own country, in an age when cities were
crumbling, Frank Pinell had seldom seen privately owned shops before.
His was an era of automated ultra-markets, through which credit could
purchase anything from a safety pin to a yacht. But these that lined
the main boulevard of European Tangier were the purveyors of ultimate
luxury—clothing and shoe stores, art galleries, jewelry stores, gourmet
food shops, liquor stores. Mingled among them were small, intimate
restaurants, offering the outstanding cuisines of the world, and even
more intimate cocktail lounges. On the face of it, not all of Tangier was
poverty-stricken.
He stood to one side for a moment and watched the pass-ersby. An
Indian woman, a red caste mark on her forehead, went past in a golden
sari. He had never witnessed a more graceful female in his life. A
Parisian—by the looks of her—went by, complete with arrogant
champagne poodle. What had MacDonald said about the Madrid mopsies
being the most beautiful in the world? Frank doubted it. Perhaps this
girl wasn't a prostitute, or even a mistress, but if she was he wondered
vaguely what she charged for a night's entertainment. Two men passed
briskly, attache cases in hand, in business suits that looked as though
they'd come from the tailor's less than half an hour previously. They
had the healthy, tanned, barbered, massaged look of the ultimately
successful. Then an Oriental girl tripped along in an off-white silken
cheongsam, the slits at the outer thighs mesmerizing him. He had
thought the Indian in her sari the epitome of grace, but this lovely
little creature looked like a Chinese doll.
He looked up and down the boulevard, wondering where to go and what
to do. All his impulses were to enter one of the bars and have the drink
he needed. His present finances didn't allow for alcoholic beverages,
certainly not at the prices that would prevail here.
A voice from behind him said, "Cooee, mate. You look like a flashing lost
soul. Dinkum you do. Could a bloke give you a steer?"
Frank turned sharply. Grinning down at him from a height of at least six
foot four was a long, cheerfully rugged type, a spanking new Australian
bush hat pushed back on his head, but otherwise as nattily dressed as
the other males on the street. Somehow, he looked slightly
uncomfortable in his tailored afternoon suit. Indeed, he was on the
gawky side, and obviously meant for the ranch, rather than a city's
sidewalks.
Frank said, "What?"
"You look like a Yank, strewth, a Yank or maybe a Canuck, new in this
barstid town. Don't want to be cheeky, but you don't look like you know
your way around, what-o?"
Frank said, "Oh. Thanks. Fact is, I just pulled in and don't know the
ropes. Is there some place, a neighborhood, where Americans hang out?
Not just Americans, but anybody who speaks English." He hesitated,
then stuck out his hand and said, "Frank Pinell. And, yeah, American.
You're Australian?"
"Too right. Nat Fraser. Bonzer to meet you, Frank." His hand was huge,
dry as the outback, and strong. "Not as many Yanks, Aussies, or even
Limeys in town as you'd bloody well wish. You go crazy as a kookaburra
for a fresh face or two."
"You're permanent here?" Frank said, regaining his well-squeezed and -
pumped hand.
"Too true, oh my word. And don't think I wouldn't do a bunk if I could.
Crikey, I haven't had a contract for donkey's years. Now, let's see. A
bar where the English speaking coves hang out. Well, mate, actually
there's three. There's the Parade, where the toffs take on their
plonk." He took in Frank's suit. "Probably too rich for your blood, what-
o?"
Frank said, after letting air out of his lungs ruefully, "Sounds like it.
I'm on a limited budget and I need a job."
The Australian cocked his head at him. "Going to be in this googly town
for a spell, eh?"
Frank could think of no reason for disguising his status. "I'm a
deportee," he said, watching the other's face to get his reaction.
There wasn't any. Nat Fraser was going on as though he hadn't heard
the confession. "Then there's the Carousel, over on Rue Rubens. Not
your cup of tea, cobber. What do you Yanks call them? Gays. I doubt
you get your lollies that way."
"No," Frank said. "What's this third one?"
"Paul Rund's, down on the Grand Socco. That's the biggest souk in town.
And Paul sells the cheapest plonk in Tangier. Drink it and you wake up
with the jumping Joe Blakes in the moring, fair dinkum. As a matter of
fact, cobber, I was off in that direction meself when I bagged you
looking lost."
"If you don't mind, I'll tag along," Frank said. "Bloody well told. Let's
go." They started up the boulevard.
Frank looked up at his elongated companion and said, "Do you think I
might make a contact at this Paul's bar?"
Nat Fraser considered it. "With the two thousand Swiss francs I
suppose you've got in your kick from your flashing government, I'd
think you could wait it out until you're able to cobber up somebody who
could give you a steer."
Frank inwardly winced but said nothing about the fact that his
thousand pseudo-dollars had melted down to less than two hundred.
At the end of Pasteur Boulevard they entered an attractive square,
largely lined with sidewalk cafes. "Place de France," the Aussie told
Frank. The sidewalk tables were well patronized, largely by prosperous
European types, most of whom were reading newspapers. Moroccan
waiters, in red fezzes and baggy black pants like bloomers, scurried
around taking and delivering orders. There was a superfluity of
shoeshine boys.
They turned right, down a winding street considerably narrower than
Pasteur Boulevard had been. The composition of the pedestrians began
to change radically. As they progressed, they saw fewer people in
European clothing and more in the dress of Africa, the Near East, and
the Orient.
"The Rue de la Liberte," Nat Fraser told him. "Where the bloody twain
meets. You know, East is East and West is West." He gave running
comment on races and costume.
There were growing numbers of Rifs, Arabs, Berbers— even an
occasional Blue Man down from the mountains. The name of the latter,
Nat explained, sprang from the indigo dye of their robes which, when
they sweated, came off on their skins, giving them an eerie look. At
least half of the women still wore the djellaba or haik with veil; half
the men wore the brown camel's-hair burnoose. Africa, evidently,
changed slowly even in the 21st Century.
"And this is the Grand Socco, mate. Cooee, a fair cow, eh? Ever see so
many wogs in your life?"
It was a large square, packed with humanity and with a hundred
different varieties of stalls—flower booths, food stands, and herb
stands, hashish being among the other so-called herbs. There were
displays of vegetables, fruits, hand-woven textiles, yellow or white
babouche slippers, and a multitude of other commodities, some
seemingly desirable in the eyes of Moroccans and some aimed
deliberately to attract tourists. There were still more of the Arabs and
Rifs, plus sailors up from the port and European riffraff from a score
of countries. Donkeys seemed to be the means of transport; no car
could have gotten through the press of bodies. Odors of mint, saffron,
and kif, the North African cannabis, mingled in the air.
Rather than press into the souk, the teeming native market, they
turned left and did their best to get through the crowded way, the
Australian in front, running interference. It seemed one hell of a
strange location for an English-speaking bar.
Nat was explaining over his shoulder, "Paul's been here for donkey's
years," he said. "He's so warm in half a dozen countries, he'll never be
able to leave. Owes something like a hundred and fifteen years in Italy
alone for smuggling, and with his TB he wouldn't last six months in one
of those cold, damp, wop nicks. No extradition from Tangier. He'll
never leave, oh my word. Interpol would grab him in ten minutes if he
put a toe down in Gibraltar."
They arrived at Paul's Bar—there was a small faded sign hanging out in
front.
Inside, it was dark and cool but hardly prepossessing. There were six or
seven stools at the bar, three tables with chairs. On the walls were
pasted aged clippings about the proprietor's exploits in the old days
when he was allegedly a ranking lockpicker, screwsman, grifter, and
smuggler. They were alternated with pinups from aged pornographic
magazines. From the ceiling hung a fisherman's net and a ship's wheel
which doubled as a chandelier, a vain attempt to give Paul's Bar a
nautical decor.
There were only three people present—one slumped at a table, head on
arms, one seated dejectedly on a stool at the bar with a bottle of beer
before him, and the bartender himself. Automated bars seemed to be
unknown in Tangier, at least in this part of town—the medina, as Nat
had named it.
The bartender had once been a larger man. Now he was emaciated. His
sallow face had a sardonic quality and he wore a moth-eaten Vandyke
beard tinged with gray. He looked up when the newcomers entered and
wiped the well-worn bar with a dirty bar rag, uselessly.
He said, "Cheers, Nat," then looked at Frank. It seemed that in Paul's
Bar one was introduced before being served.
Nat and Frank crawled onto stools and the Austalian said, "Paul, meet
Frank Pinell, a new cobber in town from the States. He's looking for a
contact." Paul put a thin hand over the bar and shook hands. However,
his eyes were narrow. "What kind of a contact?" he said. It was the
tone that bothered Frank. He said, "Well, I don't know. Just about
anything, I guess."
"You warm?" Paul Rund said. Frank thought he understood what the
other meant. "Only in the States," he said. And then, not particularly
liking this, added, "Why?"
Paul leaned on the bar and said, "Because this is a poxy town, Frank.
There's no extradition laws, there's practically no laws at all, but what
there are get pretty well obeyed, get it? This is the end of the line for
a lot of grifters. There's no place else to go if they kick you out. So
we're poxy careful not to foul our own nest, get it? We lay doggo,
that's the word, lay doggo. We don't take no scores here in Tangier.
Absolutely. And the boys take a dim view if anybody tries it. We don't
want the present easygoing laws to be no way changed."
"That's the dinkum oil," Nat said, nodding. "But you've got it wrong,
Paul. Gawd strewth. Pull your head in. Frank didn't come here to do a
romp. Deported from the States, he was. The poor cove's got to cobber
up with somebody and get an angle."
Paul evidently took the tall Australian's word for it. He said, "Good
show. Just wanted to tell you the drill here, Frank. You look like the
type of sod who'd pinch something here in Tangier and put all our
bloody arses in a sling. What'll it be, lads? First drink's on the bloody
house, Frank."
Nat said, "Make it a couple of Storks, Paul." He looked at Frank as the
bartender turned to serve them. "Not up to Aussie brew, strike me
blind. But, from what I hear, better than you Yanks are turning out
these days."
"It wouldn't have to be very good," Frank told him. "They make syntho-
beer from sawdust or something."
The two took their bottles of beer and glasses and went to the
remotest of the three tables and sat down. The beer glass wasn't clean
but Frank didn't give a damn. He poured appreciatively. It was the first
drink he'd had for several months and a lot of guff had been thrown at
him in the past couple of days in particular.
"Not bad suds considering it's made by ragheads," his companion said,
downing his whole glass in one vast draught. "The cheeky barstids don't
suppose to ever enjoy a shivoo in their whole narky lives. Oh my word,
no. Against Allah's buggering rules."
Frank didn't take much longer to finish his. The Aussie was right. It
wasn't bad beer at all. Probably still made from malt and hops, he
assumed, instead of the crap being turned out at home these days for
the prole palate.
Nat said, "How about another, cobber?" He came to his feet. Frank
said, "All right, but I ought to pay for this."
"Don't be a zany. You can't afford to play the toff until you get
yourself settled in. Been down on the bone meself in me time. Settle
down, cobber." The Aussie went over to the bar and secured another
couple of bottles from the thin-faced bartender. Frank looked after
him thoughtfully.
When he had returned and they had refilled their glasses, Frank held
his up and said, "Thanks, Nat. Mud in your eye." Nat said, holding up his
glass in toast, "Fuck Ireland." They both drank and then Frank said,
"What did you say?"
"Oh. Fuck Ireland."
Frank looked at him. "Why?"
The Australian's easygoing face took an expression of being put upon.
"Cooee, cobber, I don't know. That's what we say in Melbourne,
strewth."
Frank said, "Look here, Nat. Do you always talk this way? I miss about
half of what you mean."
Nat Fraser grinned, a ruefulness there. "A bit thick, eh? Always sets
you Yanks back. I wasn't trying to cozen you."
Frank chuckled, the first occasion he could remember having done so
for some time. He said, "All right, no harm done, but let's keep it on a
level where we communicate."
"Fair dinkum."
The American looked about the room, then brought his eyes back to his
newfound friend. "Nat," he said. "This doesn't exactly look like an
employment agency. In fact, it's obviously a low-class bar where the
town's less prosperous, uh, grifters, I believe is the term Paul used,
hang out."
Nat looked around too, taking in the other customers, both on the
seedy side. "Too right," he admitted. "Shall we do a bunk?"
"You mean get out? No," Frank told him. "Why'd you bring me here,
Nat? "
The over-lengthy Aussie let his sun-faded eyebrows go up. "What-o,
cobber? You think I was trying to cozen you?"
"Look," Frank said patiently, "I'm game, but not everybody's. I was
walking along the street, minding my own business. Suddenly you're
there, winsome as a pimp, but you sure as hell don't act like one.
Fifteen minutes later, we're in this dump. Why?"
The Australian went over and got two more bottles of Stork beer and
returned with them. He was grinning. "You said you were a deportee,"
he told Frank as he put the bottles down.
"So?"
"I'm the local recruiting sergeant, cobber."
***
Frank stared at him, even while upending the bottle over his glass.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Had any military training at all?"
"No."
Nat Fraser looked disappointed. "Don't twig anything about a shooter,
eh? What did they nail you for, cobber?"
"I didn't say that. My old man was a gun crank. Had quite a collection. I
didn't see much of him but he used to get a kick out of showing me the
workings of everything from cap-and-ball revolvers to new Gyrojets.
What was I nailed for? Homicide."
The easygoing Aussie took him in for a long moment.
Frank said, "Recruiting sergeant for what?"
"Mercenaries, Incorporated."
Frank scowled. "Never heard of it."
"The Graf's outfit."
"Never heard of him, either. You mean professional soldiers of
fortune?"
"That's the dinkum oil. This is one of the big staging areas for many a
contract. The Graf gets a contract and we put the operation together
here in Tangier."
"I thought Paul said you pulled nothing off here. That Tangier was sort
of neutral ground. The boys, as he called them, didn't want to foul their
own nest."
"Fair dinkum. We don't do anything here in Tangier. Just recruit blokes
who want to earn a little money, and put the operation together. The
Graf's sometimes got other operations going. We crew some of them,
too. Aren't as many bloody contracts these days as there used to be,
but some. Bush wars down south between all the dictators, presidents
for life, and that whole mucking lot. Some in the Far East, too. But we
don't handle those operations. They're based in Singapore and Penang.
The Graf's got his representatives there as well."
Frank said, "Soldiers of fortune, eh? Hiring yourself out to kill for
money." There was disgust in his voice.
The ordinarily amiable Aussie looked at him coldly. "What other reason
is mere to fight, cobber? A soldier's job is to win wars. If you pick that
pro-bloody-fession, you wind up killing people, usually other soldiers
who've picked the same trade."
Some of his exaggerated Aussie slang seemed to have dropped away.
Frank said, "The theory is that the usual soldier is fighting for his
country. He's doing his duty, defending it."
"Too right. That's the theory, but it's not the reality. I'm not talking
about blokes drafted during wartime. They can't get out of it, even if
they want to. But your professional soldiers are a bunch of hypocrites.
At least a mercenary can choose what side he fights on. But your
career soldier rights whoever the politicians tell him to. Look at the
Germans in the Nazi war. Were they fighting for their country?
Fucking well not. They were fighting for that dingo barstid Hitler and
his gang."
Frank was irritated by the other's strong opinions. He said, "Even
granting that doesn't excuse a mercenary, fighting for whoever will pay
him."
"Half a mo, cobber. I've never taken a contract for some rucking
barstid like Hitler or any other politician I thought was buggering up
his country. Sometimes I've been offered contracts where I wouldn't
fight on either side."
Frank stood and said, "I'll get another, ah, buggering beer."
Nat said, reaching into a pocket, "You ought to let me shout the suds."
"Why?" Frank said. "I'm not a potential recruit. No reason I should be
freeloading on you."
At the bar, while Paul Rund was getting the fresh bottles of Stork, the
wizened bartender said, "Signing up with the Graf, Frank?"
Frank eyed him. "I don't think so. Do you know of any other jobs kicking
around?"
The other popped off the two beer caps, then ran his thin fingers
through his bedraggled Vandyke. "You might get a berth on one of the
boats. Not as many of them as there used to be, but I heard Sam
McQueen needed a couple of men."
"What kind of boats?"
Paul Rund looked at him as though he had hardly expected that
question. "Smugglers."
Frank said, "For Christ's sake, I thought you said there was nothing
illegal pulled off in Tangier!"
The bartender said patiently, "Smuggling ain't illegal. You buy a cargo
of hashish or tobacco here, perfectly legit, and run it to one of the
countries where it's taboo, get it? And you sell it there, so you haven't
broken any law in Tangier. Smugglers are reputable citizens here, get
it?"
The American shook his head and took up the two beers. To his relief,
they cost only two dirhams apiece in Paul's. Back at the table, after
they had both poured, Nat Eraser said, "So you're not interested?"
"I suppose not. Look, I'm not holier than thou. In fact, I suspect my
father was some sort of mercenary; possibly in espionage, I don't know.
He and my mother were separated when I was a kid; I didn't see him
much. He was usually out of the country, I think. At any rate, he was
finally shot on one of his trips. I haven't any desire to end the same
way."
The other shurgged broad shoulders. "The Grafs got other operations,
like I said. Maybe he could find a place in the organization for a nice
presentable cove like yourself."
"From what you've said so far about his operations, I doubt it," Frank
said, finishing his beer. He stood. Somewhat to his surprise, he could
feel the drink. Possibly, Stork was stronger than the gassy anemic
American brew he was used to.
He said, "Thanks anyway, Nat. I'll see you around."
"Too right, cobber. If you change your mind, I'm usually here this time
of night."
Frank sent his glance out of one of the dirty windows. It was dark out
on the Grand Socco. He hadn't realized they'd been talking for so long.
He left after waving to Paul Rund and stood for a moment before the
door. Not a fraction of the teeming Moroccans were still on the streets
or in the souk. Evidently, everything folded in the medina with the
coming of night. He made his way past shuttered stalls, past steel-
barred store fronts, retracing his route as best he could.
He shook his head over the experiences of the past few hours. No
crime in Tangier, eh? Uh-huh. Aside from the IABI men ripping off
eight hundred of his thousand pseudo-dollars, the customs officer had
lifted his camera, his cab driver had stolen his luggage, he had been
offered a job as a mercenary despite his lack of experience, and had
been told he might land a berth on a boat smuggling narcotics.
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 attache 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 pseudo-dollar
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 Ae 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, any
thing-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.
Forry 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 man 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 Beme. Each day, as you undoubtedly
know, you will have one million pseudo-dollars 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 pseudo-dollars, we will have an expert evaluate the item.
We do not expect to have you spending, say, 50,000 pseudo-dollars 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 pseudo-dollars 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 pseudo-dollars."
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 attache 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 cigarettee 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."
Roy said, scowling, "How do you mean society provided for my future? I
didn't ask to become a complete drone. It was foisted on me."
The newsman nodded again and put down his fork, giving up the food for
which neither of them had found enthusiasm. "You're an exception. But
over a century ago society was already preparing for the day of the
prole. Most kids at that time were already spending more time watching
TV than they were spending in school. Oh, there were good schools in
the United States, such as MIT, Johns Hopkins, Berkeley, Caltech, and
so on. And the good schools turned out possibly five percent of the
college graduates of the time. But the rest of the school system was a
shambles. Kids got out of grammar school unable to read and write.
Hell, many of them graduated from high school unable to function as
adults—couldn't make out an application, couldn't keep up a checkbook.
Their reading was confined to comic books or strips in the newspapers,
or painfully wading through the sports pages. They got their news, to
the extent they were interested at all, from TV commentators."
"I still don't see how that leads to society preparing for the future,"
Roy said, scowling still. This wasn't gospel as laid down by the Wobbly
movement.
"Our people were being prepared for becoming proles, unemployables.
In modern society you've got to have a good education to hold down a
job. Fine, the five percent needed today got a good education. It's not
necessary that the ninety percent have one. In fact, it's a
disadvantage. An educated man, unemployed, is a potentially dangerous
man. He can think, and question, and act on the answers he comes up
with. Our educational system was weaning our youth away from an
aggressive approach to life, taking the guts out of them, preparing
them for their future as proles."
Roy said softly, still in rejection, "So what's our future? What lies
ahead for us!"
"Probably more of the same. And the upper class will continue to get
richer and smaller, as it eliminates the lower levels of its own class, who
are thrown down into the ranks of the proles if their fortunes are lost
by whatever means— including being pissed away."
The Wobbly looked at him, thoughtfully. He said, his voice slow, "You're
more interested in these things than you've admitted, aren't you,
Forry? How come you picked a Wobbly on this project of yours? Why
not a Luddite, or Neo-Nihilist, or possibly a Libertarian? And why meT'
Forry Brown tossed his napkin to the table and looked at his wrist
chronometer. "We have to get going," he said, bringing his card from
his pocket. "You weren't my first choice, Roy. I approached another
National Organizer of the Wobblies before you. He evidently wasn't
cut out to be a martyr. He turned me down."
Chapter Seven: Lee Garrett
Gary McBride entered the Nuits St. Georges restaurant, his eyes on
his wrist chronometer. He looked around hurriedly, frowned, and then
went into the bar lounge.
Lee Garrett sat at a small table, a glass before her. She seemed not at
all impatient.
He came up to her, his smile just slightly drawn. "Ms. Garrett, of
course?" he said. He took in the glass with its light golden contents. "By
George," he said. "Not a drink before eating the specialties of
Burgundy?" He took the table's second chair. "I'm Gary McBride."
She smiled brightly at him, her almost unbelievably blue eyes taking in
his male fashion model appearance. Not only was Gary McBride
handsome, in the best upper class tradition, but he was dressed for the
part. His suit, shirt, and shoes were exactly what the youthful senior
executive in Manhattan was wearing, not just this year, but probably
this week.
She said, after shaking hands, "Only a sherry."
"Tio Pepe, I should hope," he said. "Anything stronger or less dry would
play havoc with one's palate."
She did a little laugh, as though he were joking. "Tio Pepe is so dry it
gives me heartburn."
"Then not another sip of that," he told her severely. "Andre would be
desolate. Shall we go to our table?"
He took her arm and led her to the dining room. Lee was dressed in
green Irish tweeds which would have denigrated any figure less superb
than her own. She looked very businesslike, her simple white blouse and
low heels very sincere.
The maitre d' greeted them unctuously and led them to a table tucked
intimately away in a small nook. The decor was early French bistro:
reproductions of Toulouse Lautrec's posters, aged advertisements of
Ricard, Pernod, and a Rheims champagne. The room was moderately full
of prosperous diners.
Andre put menus before them, brought forth a pad and stylo, and
looked inquiringly, politely, and most earnestly at Gary McBride.
Gary McBride said to Lee, "The menu is in French. Shall I order?"
"Please do," she said, putting down her own carte.
Consulting with the headwaiter as he went, very seriously indeed, Gary
McBride ordered as their first course Oeufs en Cocotte Bourguignonne,
with a Meursault '48 to accompany it. When the wine arrived, Andre
again presided pouring a small amount into McBride's tulip-shaped glass.
He sipped it carefully, after he tested the bouquet, and thoughtfully
pursed his lips.
Andre murmured, "Le vin est a votre gout?"
"Excellent," Gary McBride nodded, and the headwaiter filled both
glasses two-thirds full.
Eggs a la Bourguignonne turned out to be poached in red burgundy, and
for a moment, both were silent as they sampled. Gary McBride said, "A
pity to discuss business while eating, my dear, but I understand that
you were contacted, as planned, by a member of the Anti-Racist
League." Lee nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'm afraid I muffed it."
"Not to worry, my dear. What went wrong?"
"I underestimated him. He was a black; well-educated. What tipped him
off, I have no idea, but he saw through me. I suppose it was rather
humorous. He pretended to get somewhat tipsy and, ah, pretended to
make a rather crude play for me."
His eyebrows went up.
t rape, and revealed that I wasn't truly material for the Anti-Racists.
He told me off very efficiently, greatly amused."
"I see. Then your cover is blown, so far as the Anti-Racist League is
concerned."
"I'm afraid so."
"Not to worry," he said again. "Ah, the duck." The Canard a L'Orange
arrived with the Richebourg '65
he had ordered, and again went through the wine-tasting ceremony.
When the waiter had retired he said, "You were not alone. The
Foundation has several, ah, agents making the same attempt to
penetrate the Anti-Racist League. You were but one. Others, it is to be
assured, will be more successful."
She said, "I wasn't told a great deal about the purpose of my mission.
Actually, in spite of my silly scene with Horace Hampton, I am not
particularly prejudiced so far as minorities are concerned. I was rather
surprised that the Race Research Foundation was interested in
infiltrating his organization. I thought its research would be along
other lines."
"It is but one ramification of a much broader project. You see, Lee, the
Anti-Racist League is a racist organization itself."
"I don't understand."
"In much the same way that the Zionists were."
She frowned slightly at him. "I'm not anti-Semitic, either."
"Nor am I, nor is the Foundation. We're far above such ridiculous
postures. But there are most pertinent matters involved. The Anti-
Racist League was not of particular import to us so long as it was active
in the original fifty states alone. The minorities they represent
numbered but some sixteen percent of the population; no great danger
to our status quo. However, they are now, ah, beginning to spread into
Latin America and other areas of the new United States of the
Americas."
She scowled down at her plate. "I don't believe I follow you."
"These new citizens have the vote, Lee. There are enough blacks in
Haiti, Jamaica, and even the Guianas to assure that their senators and
representatives will be represented in Congress by blacks—if steps are
not taken. It's equally true for Mexico, Central America, and the parts
of South America which are chiefly Indian."
"So the purpose of the Race Research Foundation is…"
"Ultimately, to maintain the status quo. To see that our people, yours
and mine, do not vanish from the positions of power they now assume.
Ah, but here is the cheese. I have ordered a selection of Roquefort,
Brie, and Chevre."
The cheese was accompanied by a bottle of Rose d'Anjou, following
which the waiter brought Crepes de Chapitre.
Lee, who had been silent and thoughtful through these culinary
wonders, said at one point, "But since my cover has been blown, as you
put it, I am no longer of value to the Foundation."
He smiled at her condescendingly. "We'll discuss it later in my office,
my dear."
When they finished the meal, Andre returned, bowing unctuously again.
He said to Gary McBride, "Ca vous a plu, le repas, Monsieur McBride?"
"II etait superb, Andre," the other told him grandly.
Andre looked at Lee. "Et Madam?"
Lee said, ' 'Mes felicitations au chef pour ses crepes. Us etaient
commes des diners de George Garin au Chateau du Clos de Veuheot. IIy
avaient des autres nobles efforts."
"Merci, Madam." Andre bowed deeply and was gone.
Gary McBride gaped at her. "Parisian French," he said accusingly.
"My father was in the diplomatic corps. In Paris, I attended the Lycee
Janson de Sailly. I also have Spanish, Portugese, and Italian, and can
get along in German. My Russian is atrocious."
"All Russian is atrocious," he smirked, then saw irritation in her face.
"Or did I make a mistake?"
She said, evenly, "Several. Never order such a wine as Richebourg with
such a dish as Canard a L'Orange. Nor any other wine, for that matter.
The acid of the orange sauce destroys the enjoyment of any great wine.
The sole exception is Bouzy, from the Champagne district. If you must
order Richebourg it is worthy of a much greater dish, such as Venison
Grand Veneur or Lievre a la Royale."
"I see," he said coldly. "And what else?"
"None of the cheeses were from Burgundy. A Brillat Savarin or ripe
Epoisse would have been preferable. And Rose d'Anjou, a suspect wine
at best, is anathema to both Burgundy food and any cheese and most
certainly should never do for the crepes, which were excellent, as I
told the maitre d'. By the way, his French has a horrible Brooklyn
accent."
"I see," he said. "Shall we go?" He stood, tossing his napkin to the
table.
She looked up at him. "Why? My one assignment for the Race Research
Foundation came a cropper. I should have looked further into the whole
thing before undertaking it. If I had, possibly I would have refused the
job. I was too thrilled at the prospect of actually being employed when
the computer selected me to work for you, Mr. McBride. Now, even if
you did have some position I could hold down, I'm not sure I would
choose to be associated with such a pompous superior.''
He grinned suddenly, which completely altered his face. He said, "Good.
We've got some things to discuss."
She shrugged in resignation, dropped her own napkin to the table, and
stood. "I can't imagine what," she murmured.
At the desk, he brought forth his card and placed it in the payment
slot, saying, "Please add a twenty percent tip."
"Thank you, sir," the screen said.
As he was returning his credit card to an inner pocket, he turned his
eyes to Lee and smiled again. "How's my French?"
Her face was expressionless. "Only fair," she said. "You seldom acquire
a proper French accent outside France or Switzerland. I suspect that
most of your instructors were Americans. The French are fanatical
about accent."
"I surrender," he said, taking her arm.
The Manhattan office of the Race Research Foundation was within easy
walking distance and since it was located in the vicinity of New
Columbia University, it made for a pleasant stroll. They maintained
silence during the walk and Lee Garrett was surprised at the fact that
he was still amused. This was a different Gary McBride. Gone was the
affected front. What in the world was this all about? The fluffing of
the job wasn't particularly important. But what she had told Horace
Hampton had been partly correct. She was tired of the frivolous life
and would have liked something worthwhile to do.
The Manhattan offices of the Race Research Foundation were modest.
In the outer office were three desks, two women and a young man at
them, equipped with the standard vocotypers, phone screens, and
library boosters for consultation with the National Data Banks. All
greeted Gary McBride by his first name, which surprised Lee. She had
expected a stuffy atmosphere, at best.
He didn't bother to introduce her. His private office turned out to be a
room of warmth and informality. He seated her in a comfortable chair
before rounding the desk and taking his own place.
She still didn't know why she had come. Now that she had fluffed the
Hampton contact, she couldn't see how she could possibly infiltrate the
Anti-Racist League.
Gary McBride, smiling again, picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk
and said, "This is your Dossier Complete. It reports that you attended
the Lycee Janson de Sailly, one of the oldest private secondary schools
in Paris. You were there for several years, invariably top in your class."
She glared indignantly at him. "What the devil are you doing with that?
The Dossier Complete of any citizen can be consulted only by proper
authorities for adequate cause. You need the highest priority in the
National Data Banks to…" He held up a hand and grinned his boyish grin
at her. "Exactly." He watched suspicions chase across her face and
then nodded. "We enjoy such a priority."
She was staring at him in sudden realization. "You knew all the time,
there in the restaurant, that I spoke French."
"Guilty as charged."
"But… then why did you pretend to make such a fool of yourself before
that… that Brooklyn Frenchman?"
He grinned once more. "Lee, the organization of which we are but one
subsidiary makes every effort to recruit the best personnel. Practically
every employment position filled in the United States goes through the
National Data Banks computers. The computers select the most
suitable person available for each job." He paused, then winked. "But we
get to the data banks before the government computers even begin
their selections. We skim the cream of the crop." He could see her
confusion. He tapped the sheaf of papers before him.
"Lee, the Dossier Complete is possibly the most comprehensive tally of
a citizen's life ever assembled. It begins before your birth, references
going beyond your grandparents. And, from your birth, every aspect of
your life is checked: health, upbringing, education, sports
accomplishments, criminal record, employment record, travels, and on
and on. Among other things checked is your ability quotient. Your
dossier builds profiles of your verbal and numerical abilities, spatial
ability, memory, speed of reflexes, dexterity, mechanical aptitude,
emotional maturity, veracity, sensory limits, natural charm, persistence,
neurosis, powers of observation, health, and a few others."
She smiled. "Depressing idea. We're all confronted with these
confounded tests every few years. That is, if we have any interest in
work or running for office. Maybe I should've refused to take them.
But what's all this got to do with…"
He held up a hand. "There are a few things, my dear, that can't be
tested. Luck, for instance."
"Luck! There is no such thing."
"I'm afraid there is, just as there is accident-proneness, which also
defies computer analysis. Even though you were given unbelievably high
marks, suppose that when I entered the Nuits St. George I found you
wearing two left shoes, or you were hunched up in posture, or you were
dressed in khaki shorts and a man's shirt like a prole. Suppose further
that when subjected to a 'pompous superior'—I believe that was your
term—you were willing to accept him as your boss."
She laughed. "That was all put on! You were testing me."
He grinned back and nodded. "If you hadn't the other qualifications we
were looking for, you might still have been employed—somehow. But we
also wished to check your poise, grooming, physical attractiveness, and
sensibilities. You passed with flying colors."
She looked at him levelly. "So, if I passed your exam that goes beyond
the Ability Quotient tests, just what is this position you have in mind?
I've already bombed out as an infiltrator of the Anti-Racist League."
The other leaned back in his swivel chair and was silent for a few
seconds. "What do you know about the World Club?"
"Why, I suppose what everybody else knows: it's the think tank to end
all think tanks—a multinational philanthropic organization which digs
into socioeconomic problems confronting the world. Lagrange Five and
Asteroid Belt Islands, too, for that matter."
He nodded but said, "It's a great deal more than that. It also keeps
track of the population explosion, resources, pollution, religion, the
tendencies toward the police state, terrorism, and… racism. For your
ears only, the Race Research
Foundation is a subsidiary of the World Club. That would be a shocker
even to the most diligent news media expose' experts."
She was wide-eyed now. "But what has this got to do with me?"
"You've been selected to work directly under the Central Committee,
which likes a low profile. For the media, it doesn't exist."
She was too flabbergasted to speak. He took up a stylo and readied it
over a paper pad. "Before we go further into that, suppose we get the
details of this interview you had with the black from the Anti-Racist
League. His name?"
"Horace Hampton. Known as Hamp." Gary McBride flicked on a desk
screen and said into it, "Liz, check out a Horace Hampton, a.k.a. Hamp,
of the Anti-Racist League, a black." Lee said, "I don't know his I.D.
number." Gary smiled at her. He was a damned sight more likeable than
he had been in the restaurant. He said, "He's black; a member of the
Anti-Racist League. He'll be one of their better men if he was your
contact. We'll have some record of him."
They did. Shortly, his dossier began flashing on the screen. From time
to time, he read out some extract to her. "Seems to have some
independent source of income, since seldom uses all of his GAS. No
criminal record, though he is suspected of being one of the top trouble-
shooters of the Anti-Racist League. Suspected in the slapstick fake
assassination of Governor Teeter, though thus far there is no
evidence."
Lee was taken aback by that. "He said that they were against violence."
Gary chuckled as he looked mockingly at her. "That's what he said.
From what you've reported, he knew that you were a plant. What else
could he say?"
"But he seemed sincere."
"Oh, he's sincere, all right. He sincerely believes that extreme racists,
such as Teeter, should be dealt with." Gary McBride, still scanning the
black's dossier as he spoke to her, grunted his surprise.
He glanced up at Lee. "This is strange," he said. "That's possibly the
thinnest dossier I've ever seen—especially when it comes to the
criminal record."
She wrinkled her forehead. "How do you mean?"
"He has none whatsoever. Not even a traffic violation. And, as a result,
he has no fingerprint record." He thought about it. "I think I'll just
forward the name of Horace Hampton to Rome. Perhaps they'll wish to
look further into this."
"Rome?"
"That's where the World Club is based. And that's where you're going,
my dear." His smile was disarming. "That is, if I can talk you into it."
Chapter Eight: Frank Pinell
A voice from a far distance was saying, "Cooee, wot in the flashing hell
happened?"
Frank came alive to find, groggily, that he was sitting on the sidewalk,
supported by an anxious Nat Fraser, who was hunkered down on one
knee.
Frank got out, "Mugged. Two of them, I think."
"Barstids," the Australian growled. "Damned buggering ragheads. A
bloke's not safe to walk up the street. Come on, cobber. We best get
you to a sawbones. Never know, might have some broken ribs. They give
you the bloody boot?" He got a long, sinewy arm around the fallen
American's body and up under his armpits.
"I… I think so," Frank got out, trying to help himself erect.
"My car's over here. Just luck I came along. Don't usually use this
street, Rue d'Angleterre, but I was heading up to Panikkar's place on
Cape Spartel."
Frank half staggered, was half manhandled by his rescuer, to the small
sports model hovercar which was parked, door open, at the curb.
As he was wedged into the bucket seat he got out, "I…1 can't afford a
doctor."
"Don't be a bloody fool, cobber. Let me worry about that."
The Aussie slammed the door shut and went around the front of the
vehicle to the driver's side and got in, not by opening the door, but by
winging a long leg over the side, slipping down into place. He said, as
they took off up the wandering street, "It's bonzer I did a bunk from
Paul's right after you left, cobber. A bit of luck, eh?"
"In English?" Frank said. The rash of the cool night air was bringing him
around.
The Australian laughed and pushed his bush hat down more firmly on his
head. "We'll be there in no time flat, cobber, and then the fur'll fly.
Did you see them?"
"No, not well. Couple of Moroccans, I think. Native clothes." Frank
hadn't the vaguest idea what the other was talking about. What fur
would fly?
The streets weren't well lighted but they seemed to have left the
medina completely and were now in the European part of town. The road
climbed.
"Up here's the Marshand," Nat called over to him. "The more money a
bloke's got in this bloody town, the higher up on the mountain he lives."
Frank felt the back of his head gingerly. He had no doubts he'd have a
beautiful knot there in the morning. He felt his ribs. Nothing seemed
broken, but you never knew. He understood you could go around with a
broken rib for weeks and sometimes not know it. He searched for a
handkerchief and came up with one, about the only thing that his
assailants hadn't taken. He coughed and spat into it. There was no
blood.
They emerged from the town proper. The houses were more widely
spaced and reminiscent of the Spanish Colonial architecture of
Southern California and the older towns of Mexico. Most of the villas
were surrounded by pine and gum trees and now the road ran along a
cliff with incomparable views of the sea and the Spanish coast beyond.
Frank said, "Where'd you say we were going?" He was feeling better by
the minute.
"My boss's digs. He'll have a sawbones there." Shortly afterward, Nat
said, "Cape Spartel. Farthest west a bloke can get in Africa."
Frank blinked at the group of buildings they were approaching, by far
the most extensive estate they had passed. They were surrounded by a
wall of dressed fieldstone, possibly six feet high. Wrought-iron
uprights were planted at the top, and the spaces between were
entwined with vicious barbed wire.
They came to a halt outside a small fortress of a gatehouse, also of
fieldstone. Frank noticed that they had passed over a trigger plate in
the road.
A guard came out. He was wearing a beret, what looked like a
paratrooper's combat uniform, and heavy leather boots. He carried a
small submachine gun which he handled with the ease of a professional.
A bright light came on from the guardhouse and zeroed in on their
faces. There was a series of audible clicks and Frank got the feeling
that a TV lens was on them. Okay, it was their needle, they could
thread it as they liked.
Nat Fraser said, "What—o, Hercule?" The guard nodded at him but said
nothing. The light went out, and in a moment the clicking sounds came
again. The automated steel gate swung open and the little vehicle
slithered through. The winding road that lay beyond must have been a
full quarter of a kilometer in length.
They pulled up before an ornate entry and a young man dressed like the
gate guard, but bearing no visible weapon, issued forth.
He approached, smiled at the Australian, and said, "Willkom-men, Herr
Fraser." He looked at Frank questioningly.
Nat said, "A new Yank recruit. I vouch for him, Karl. Is the colonel in?"
"He is expecting you, Herr Fraser." Evidently, the Australian had called
ahead on his transceiver on the way up. Frank hadn't noticed, but he
had been in no shape to be noticing things.
Nat got out of the little hovercar the same way he had entered it—
over the side—pushed his bush hat back on his head, and went around
to help Frank out.
Karl assisted, seeming to find nothing strange about the appearance of
the soiled and battered newcomer.
They got Frank up the four stone steps and to the door. Nat took over
completely there.
Karl said, "Colonel Panikkar is in the study, Herr Fraser."
"Too right," the Aussie said, and helped Frank down the short hall that
stretched ahead.
There was an identity screen on the heavy carved wooden door. Almost
immediately, it clicked and opened. Beyond was the most impressive
study Frank Pinell had ever seen. By the looks of it, it was a combination
of library study and office. Bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling,
filled with leatherbound books of the old style. Tasteful paintings of
both East and West were represented on the walls, none of them
modern. But there were also steel files and on both of the two desks
were the usual office equipment, including a voco-typer on the smaller
one. The furniture was heavy and functional, but in excellent taste.
Only the battleship gray of the carpeting detracted from the
otherwise impressive decor. It gave a military effect.
Behind the larger of the desks, looking up at their entry, was a man of
possibly sixty. Square of face, gray of hair and heavy mustache, he was
dark complexioned. He wore traditional Indian clothing, including a
black, frock-length coat and jodhpurs. He had a dignified military
posture.
Nat said, "This is the young Yank I called you about, Colonel. Strike me
blind but he's got the luck of the Irish. Been in this buggering town no
more than hours but a couple of the flashing ragheads set on him and
leave him on the street with a broken block."
Then he became more formal. "Colonel Ram Panikkar, Frank Pinell."
The colonel came around his desk to shake hands, western style. His
face was indignant as he took in Frank's dirt-fouled clothing and
bruises.
He said to Nat, "Make your man comfortable, Nat. I'll be with you in
just a moment."
The Australian got his still-shaky companion into a chair.
The colonel said into a TV screen, "Doctor, could you bring your bag and
join us at once in my study?" He then flicked a switch and commanded,
"Get me Foud, immediately."
He looked up at Nat. "Where did this take place?"
"On the Rue D'Angleterre, just up from the bloody Grand Socco."
The Indian looked at Frank. "Just what did the hooligans get away
with?"
Frank took a deep breath and said, "Most important, about two hundred
pseudo-dollars worth of Swiss gold francs and dirhams. Also my
Moroccan police papers which I got at the airport, my pocket
transceiver, and the usual odds and ends."
A face had appeared on the phone screen—a dark, evil face crowned by
an orange turban. Its owner would have had no difficulty whatsoever
landing a part as a stereotype fanatic assassin on Stateside Tri-Di.
The colonel said, his voice dangerously crisp, "As-salaam alaykum, Foud."
The other answered, his own voice careful, "Alaykum as-salaam. Ram
Panikkar."
The Indian spoke rapidly in what Frank assumed was Arabic. Perhaps
the colonel was Pakistani, rather than Indian.
In short order, Ram Panikkar turned back to Frank and his Australian
rescuer.
"Your possessions will be at your hotel in the morning, Mr. Pinell." And
then to Nat, "It was Mustapha and Jabir. The dogs become bolder each
month that passes." He added with satisfaction, "I let Foud know that
your friend was under the protection of the Graf."
A roly-poly little man entered from a side door, the traditional black
bag of the physician in his right hand. He was a fussbudget, pink of
rounded face and wearing old-fashioned pince-nez glasses on a bulbous
little nose.
The colonel made introductions. "Dr. Fuchs, Mr. Pinell. Mr. Pinell has
been the victim of street desperadoes. We thought it best that he be
checked. Do you wish to take him to the clinic?"
The doctor bobbed his head and said in accented English, "Vevillzee."
The examination was comparatively brief. The doctor hummed
importantly as he worked. He wound up very pleased with both himself
and his patient. AH was well. He gave Frank four pills with instructions
for taking them, assured all that Frank was in good repair, then shook
hands all around, said goodnight, and left.
While this had been going on, the colonel had gone to a bar along one
wall and, when the doctor had gone, returned with three tall glasses
containing the most excellent Scotch Frank had ever tasted.
As he handed the glasses around, the colonel said, "I prescribe this as
even more effective, under the circumstances, than the good doctor's
pills. Cheers, gentlemen."
"Fuck Ireland," Nat murmured.
But in spite of his light words, the Indian was frowning.
He took a small sip of his neat whiskey and said to Frank, "Two hundred
pseudo-dollars? I understood from what our good Nat said that you had
but landed this afternoon. Surely you have not already gone through
eight hundred pseudo-dollars. Doesn't your, ah, former government
issue each deportee a full thousand?"
Frank said bitterly, "My IABI escorts decided that such a sum would
be wasted on me. They handed over two hundred. It seems that on
their way back to the States they intended to lay over in Madrid and
blow the rest of it at, uh, I think a bar named Chicote's where the
whores congregate."
Nat blurted indignantly, "And wot'd you do, mate?"
Frank looked over at him in disgust. "What could I do? They were
armed and I was completely out of my element and in a strange
country."
"I see," the colonel said ominously. "And what other adventures did you
have today?''
Frank told him about the cab driver and his stolen luggage.
The colonel's dark complexion became even blacker with fury. He said
ominously again, "And what else?"
Frank shrugged it off. "The customs officer took a rather valuable
camera that had been left me by my father."
"I'm not sure that even I can do anything about that," the colonel
muttered.
He turned back to his elaborate TV phone, dialed, and said, after a
moment, "Rafa? Ram Panikkar, in Tangier. Tonight there should be two
IABI agents in Chicote's. They've shaken down one of the boys for
eight hundred pseudo-dollars." He looked up from the screen and over
at Frank. "What were their names?"
Frank said, "MacDonald and Roskin. I don't know their first names. Look
here…"
But the colonel was back at his screen, where he repeated the names.
He said, "I want the eight hundred back here by morning. I also want
them taught a small lesson. Not to be overdone, you understand, but I
want them left in no condition to travel tomorrow. You understand."
He listened for a moment, then said, "Yes, two IABI men, probably
armed, but this has been going too far. I do not wish Tangier to get the
reputation of being wide open for extortion. If you wish to check this
out with Peter Windsor at the
Wolfschloss, go right ahead. I am sure he will agree with me."
He flicked off the screen, thought a moment, then dialed again. A face
must have appeared, since he said, "Samir? I am speaking in my capacity
as Tangier representative of the Graf. One of your drivers this
afternoon stole two suitcases from a passenger from the airport. I
make this perfectly clear, Samir. I want those two bags here, with all
contents, before the night is out. No, I do not know the name of the
driver. That is all, Samir."
He flicked off the screen again and turned back to Frank and Nat, grim
satisfaction on his face.
Frank stammered, "I… I don't know how to thank you, Colonel Panikkar."
The Indian waved a hand in dismissal. "You simply presented us with an
opportunity, Frank. Tangier is possibly the most extensive center of
the Grafs operations. We have no intention of putting up with small-
time local hoodlums bothering our people, disrupting our activities."
Frank said unhappily, "But that's the point, Colonel. I'm not one of your
people. I told Nat I didn't think that I could come in with you."
The other looked from Frank to Nat and then back again. "Ah, I didn't
know that. However, it is your own choice, of course. We have no
intention of coercing you. Nat, would you see to refills for our glasses?"
"Too right," Nat said, heading for the bar. The colonel said wryly, "And
Nat, dear boy, where in the world do you get those hats?"
The Aussie grinned back at him over his shoulder and touched the bush
hat, which it seemed he never removed, even indoors. "Me titfer?" he
said. "Had it shipped from Sydney. A bloke's got to keep up
appearances, that's wot I say." He returned to the others with an
imperial quart of whiskey and poured for all.
The colonel snorted but turned back to Frank. "I am rather surprised.
It would seem, under the circumstances, that you would welcome
employment."
Frank said unhappily, "It's not that I don't appreciate your kindness,
Colonel. But I heard Nat out and I don't believe I'd make a good
mercenary."
The colonel shrugged and sipped lightly at his new drink. He said, "The
Graf's activities are not limited to mercenary matters, Frank. Let me
give you some background. In the very old days, such as when Xenophon
led his 10,000 Greek mercenaries to fight for Cyrus of Persia, such
matters were handled on a large and efficient scale. But of recent
centuries wars have largely been conducted by national governments
with citizen armies, along with such related matters as weapons
procurement and so forth. Mercenary activities have been hit and miss.
Professional soldiers of fortune would apply singly or in small groups for
employment. Seldom were more than a few hundred involved. Often,
those that were found themselves, ah, holding the bag when the war
was over and their side had lost. They could only whistle for their hard-
earned pay. We are changing that. For one thing, modern weapons are
not easily mastered by uneducated peasants. A Congo bushman does not
fly a rocket fighter plane."
Frank nodded at that.
"So today, in the occasional wars that develop, it is necessary for large
numbers of professionals to be at hand in the underdeveloped
countries. Would it surprise you to know that the Graf can handle a
complete action without going outside his own organization? He can
field a full disciplined division within a month, and arm them completely,
including air cover. From espionage preceding the actual conflict, to
getting money out for the officials of collapsing governments, washing
it, depositing it in Nassau or Swiss banks, and then spiriting absconding
officials to safety to enjoy their, ah, loot. Or, another service might be
the—removal?—of other politicians. All of this is on contract, so
arranged that the Grafs organization is always guaranteed its pay,
bonuses, and insurance in case of death or disability. The Graf takes
care of his own." He grimaced in amusement and looked about the
luxurious study. "As you see, I do not live in poverty."
Frank was frowning. "It's hard to believe that this Graf can field a
completely armed division. He has ten or twenty thousand men on his
payroll?"
Nat chuckled and poured still more of the priceless Scotch.
The Indian smiled and shook his head. "No, of course not. He supports a
permanent staff spotted about the world, such as my operation here in
Tangier. Senior executives such as myself, office workers, and so on.
He also has on retainer, between actual contracts, a cadre of officers
who can spring to duty within hours; all experienced veterans. He then
has, on call, thousands of available infantrymen, pilots, tank men,
logistics specialists, and so on, ready to enlist at any time for any
duration. They are not on the permanent crew. They usually exist on
GAS, or its equivalent in the advanced countries, between
employments."
Frank said, "You've suggested that you took on other contracts besides
wars and revolutions."
Panikkar nodded. "Yes, many. Last month we conducted a commando
action which involved only twenty men. One of our best officers, a
Major Shannon, and nineteen veteran non-coms.It seems that there was
a half-mad dictator on one of the smaller Caribbean islands. His people
overwhelmingly wished to join the United States but he,
understandably, refused. He and his family were vampires upon that
island's population. However, funds were raised, and the commando
detachment was sent to take him out."
"Then you actually do individual assassinations." The Aussie chuckled
again but stuck to his drink, rather than joining into the conversation.
The colonel shrugged. "On occasion. We see little difference, morally
speaking, between entering into a full-fledged war or killing an
individual. But see here, you are an educated young man. You must have
read of Genghis Khan, one of the great military men of all time. He rose
from being a simple chieftain of a small nomadic tribe in Central Asia to
conquer the largest empire the world had ever seen. He destroyed
whole civilizations. He slaughtered millions of sedentary peoples so
their lands could be devoted to his flocks. Only one thing stopped his
hordes from engulfing Europe: he died. Now, tell me, my good Frank,
what would the world have been saved had our Genghis Khan been
assassinated when he was a young man?" Frank was nonplussed.
The Indian went on. "It goes both ways. Suppose your Abraham Lincoln
had been suitably guarded against assassination. What would have been
the difference if this good man had lived on to preside over the
reconstruction of your South?
It took a hundred years for the South to fully recover from your Civil
War."
Frank said hesitantly, "Your Graf provides bodyguards, I take it."
"Naturally. He has the most efficient bodyguards in the world."
"I hope so. Assassination is—well, hell, it isn't civilized!"
"But it can improve civilization." Panikkar finished his second large
whiskey. "Take Mahem Dhu, who recently proclaimed himself the Mahdi
in Central Africa."
' 'Never heard of him.''
"The Mahdi is a figure of Moslem mythology," Panikkar explained.
"Something like a messiah, he is to return as the world is about to end,
unite all believers, and destroy those who are evil. It is a most primitive
aspect of Islam. The last major leader who proclaimed himself the
Mahdi was Mohammed Ahmed in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan in the 19th
Century. He called for a holy war and in a few years his followers
overwhelmed an area half the size of Europe, slaughtering hundreds of
thousands. They beat the British army and killed General Gordon."
"But this new one?" Frank said.
"Mahem Dhu. He's trying the same thing in Central and Northern
Africa. He refuses to join the United Church, while many Islamic sects
are joining. If he continues, millions of uneducated blacks and Arabs
will die. If he should be, ah, removed, their lives will be spared and,
with the help of United Church missionaries, their countries will be
rapidly upgraded."
"I see your point," Frank admitted. He pulled at his drink unhappily.
"Still…"
Nat Fraser scoffed. "Mate," he said. "You bloody well told me that the
Yanks deported you for homicide. What's the buggering difference?
You knock off some cove on your own, or you do it for the Graf for
mucking good pay. And you don't have to take a contract if you don't
like it. Strewth, I've turned down more than one."
Frank looked back at the colonel. "I don't see what use I'd be to you.
I'm no soldier."
Ram Panikkar shrugged it off. "It's not important, Frank. Sleep on it.
We might find you a position appropriate to your abilities, seeing that
you're a most personable and a reasonably educated young man." He
looked at his wrist chronometer. "But you must be tired after all your
troubles today. And you must be hungry." He looked at the Australian.
"Nat, I suggest that you see that Frank gets a good meal and then put
him up for the night in one of the dormitories. I'd suggest the non-com
quarters. Tomorrow morning he can return to his hotel."
"Too right, Colonel," Nat said, coming to his feet.
Frank stood too and began his thanks but the colonel waved' them
aside, smiling, and returned to the papers on his desk without further
words.
Next morning, driven to his hotel by Nat Fraser, Frank found not only
his suitcases and the personal things that had been stolen from him by
the muggers, but a pile of Swiss francs and Moroccan dirhams atop the
rickety dresser. They totalled a full equivalent of a thousand pseudo-
dollars, slightly more than he had been robbed of. After all, he had
owed the cab driver five dirhams and had paid Luigi ten dirhams for
room rent, and had bought a round of drinks at Paul's Bar. Even his
camera was in one of the suitcases. The colonel had clout.
A vague thought came to him. How had Panikkar known he was staying
at the Hotel Rome? He had told neither the Indian nor Nat Fraser.
Chapter Nine: Roy Cos
The shuttle from Nassau to Greater Miami was brief and uneventful.
Both men were so deep in their thoughts that Roy Cos didn't even
bother to stare out the heavy glass ports at the sea and islets below.
Obviously, he was having second thoughts about this whole project. How
had he ever allowed the damned newsman to talk him into it?
Forry Brown squinted over at him and tried to rise to the occasion. He
knew very well what was in Roy's mind; he even had a twinge of guilt
about it. But, the whole thing was now irreversible. He said, "You know
the trouble with you Utopians?"
Roy sighed and said, "No."
"You won't like Utopia."
Roy sighed again and said, "There is no such thing as Utopia. As soon as
you get to your goal, there's a better one beckoning. No science is more
in a condition of continual change than socioeconomics. Utopian? Our
revolutionary forefathers in 1776 thought they were creating a Utopia.
They didn't."
"Fine," Forry said. "But whatever you call it, most of you won't like it."
"Why?"
"Because you all have a different picture of it. Vegetarians will picture
the future society as one in which no meat will be eaten. Prohibitionists
expect the end of booze but a good Italian radical would be aghast at
the idea that wine and good food, including meat, would be taboo.
Nudists expect nudism, puritans expect purity—in petticoats, at that.
Serious straight-laced Wobblies expect the world of the future to be
very serious and very efficient, but the easygoing ones look forward to
a frivolous, bang-up time for everybody. And the differences on the
sex question are going to be wild! I'll bet the march toward complete
promiscuity will continue but I've noted that most of the Wobblies I've
met are on the conservative side."
Roy sighed once again and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Wobblies
don't believe that establishing our social system will solve all problems.
We only contend that it will solve a good many of the most pressing
problems."
Forry grunted and rubbed along his wisp of a mustache with a
thumbnail. "I wish I could smoke in this flying sardine can," he said.
"What the hell ever happened to socialism? I don't believe I've even
heard the word for years."
"Scientific socialism stopped being scientific about a century and a half
ago," Roy told him. "It got to the point where everybody was called
socialist, from Roosevelt to Hitler. Sweden was socialist. So was Russia,
not to speak of England, which still had a royal family left over from
feudalism. It stopped making sense. The only group in the States that
would have been called socialists are the Libertarians."
"What do they want, as compared to you Wobblies?"
"To reform People's Capitalism, or Meritocracy. We want to end it and
establish a new system. They want more GAS for everybody, better
education, better everything. They're reformers, not revolutionaries."
He looked out the small porthole. "Hey, we're coming in." Then, in a
lower voice: "Did you notice that the man who was following us is on our
shuttle?"
"I noticed."
They walked down the shuttle's ladder, their small luggage in hand, and
headed for the customs hall. Customs was the merest of formalities;
the twelve packs of illegal cigarettes went through unseen.
Passed by customs, they headed for the exit and were immediately
accosted by two young men, one in prole garments, the other in a fairly
presentable sportsman's garb. The prole was big and square and on the
rugged side, the other was trimmer. Both were in their early twenties
and both wore grim expressions.
Forry looked at them warily but Roy said, smiling and extending his
hand, "Hi, Ron. Hi, Les. I knew you'd make it." As usual, a smile worked
wonders on the face of the
Wobbly organizer. "Forry, these are the Wobblies I told you about.
Ronald Ellison, Lester Bates, meet Forrest Brown."
Forry nodded as he shook. "Glad to see you fellas. We're being
followed."
"I spotted him," the husky youth, Ron, said. "I thought this contract
thing didn't start until tomorrow morning."
Forry said, "It starts at midnight. But meanwhile they'll be wanting to
know where Roy is going, where he'll be when the contract does go into
effect. Did you get a car?"
Les, the better dressed one, nodded. "Right."
They left the administrative building and started out into the large
parking area.
"Where's the car?" Forry said.
"Not in the parking lot," Ron" told him. "We thought there might be
somebody waiting for you to land. Just follow me."
Mystified, Roy and Forry let the other two lead the way. They walked
to the far end of the shuttleport's administration building, then
entered a narrow alley between it and a huge hangar. The drab
narrowness gave the passage a sinister quality.
The little ex-newsman said in protest, "What the hell?" He looked at
their two guides suspiciously and then at Roy.
Roy said, "It's all right. If they say it's okay, then it is. Lead on, Les."
They hadn't gone fifty feet down the deserted alley before two others
entered it. One of them was the unknown who had tailed them from the
time they had left the c^ices of Oliver Brett-James in Nassau. The
other was a stranger. They were pretending to be in deep discussion, as
if unaware of the four ahead of them in the narrow alleyway.
Les, Ron, Roy, and Forry continued on their course, the newsman
nervous about their followers.
And then two more huskies entered the alley behind those followers.
Ron said, with grim satisfaction, "Here we go." He and Les turned and
watched expectantly as though ready to return.
The need didn't materialize. The action that took place was brutal and
brief. One of the new arrivals had a short truncheon in his right hand;
the other seemed to have something metallic over the knuckles of his
right fist. With no prelimi-naries whatever, they attacked. In fifteen
seconds, the two who had been following Roy Cos were down on the alley
floor, arms over their heads in a futile attempt to protect themselves.
The newcomers lashed into them with heavy shoes, kicking at ribs,
stomachs, and kidneys.
"Jesus," Ron said in admiration. "If Billy doesn't look out he's going to
kill those funkers."
"Couldn't happen to nicer guys," Les growled.
Forry looked over at Roy Cos. "You are an organizer," he said in awe.
Roy said, "I have my moments."
Leaving their unconscious victims behind, the two additional guards
came up, grinning as though embarrassed.
The first one said, "If either of those bastards are out of the hospital
in less than two weeks, I'll turn in my merit badge in mugging."
Roy said, "Forrest Brown, meet Richard Samuelson and Billy Tucker."
Forry said, even as he shooF, "You gentlemen take your work seriously,
don't you?"
Dick Samuelson and Billy Tucker were in the same age group as Ron and
Les, both six-footers, both around two hundred pounds. They greeted
Roy Cos warmly after they shook hands with the little newsman.
"Holy smog," Forry muttered. "If all you Wobblies are like this, why
didn't you put over your damned revolution years ago? Let's get out of
here before somebody else shows up."
The six of them hurried on up the alley.
"Glad I made it in time," Billy said. "I had to come all the way from
Denver. Had a meet there."
Forry looked at him. "What kind of a meet?"
"Wrestling."
The alley debouched on a small parking area. For all but a few, private
cars were a luxury.
They came up to the limousine Ron indicated, and Forry began to get
into the driver's seat, saying, "I'm the only one who knows where we're
going to ground."
But Roy shook his head. "Les is a racing driver," he said simply.
The ex-newsman looked at Les Bates thoughtfully and then nodded.
"Fine," he said, getting into the back seat instead. "Get out on the
highway and turn right, Les." He said to Billy, "I saw you give those two
characters in the alley a quick frisk after they passed out. Did you get
anything?"
"A shooter," Billy said, satisfaction in his voice.
"Well, as soon as we get out into the countryside, you ought to ditch it.
We can't afford to be found by the police with an unlicensed gun. If
they coop Roy up in some banger, the Graf's men will figure out how to
get to him within hours. If any of the rest of your boys are heeled,
think about that."
They looked at him respectfully even as Les, obviously expert at the
wheel, took them out onto the highway. Dick Samuelson said, "Yes, sir,"
meek as a mouse, and brought out a compact black automatic, holding it
in a gloved hand to be tossed out a window.
Billy dipped his hand into the side pocket of his prole denim jacket
reluctantly and came out with a Gyrojet pistol. "It's a beauty," he said
with regret. "Whoever those cloddies were, they didn't skimp on
equipment."
"They're probably employees of the Graf," Forry said sourly.
Dick Samuelson hissed between his teeth. "Then Roy wasn't just
whistlin' Dixie when he said that most likely we'd be in thick soup, eh?
I've heard about the Graf."
Ron said, "There's a car behind. I think it's a tail."
Les grinned gently and snicked his gear selector. "I picked out this pile
of iron myself," he said. "Belt up, boys."
Billy said to Forry, "You still think we ought to toss these shooters
out?"
"Absolutely," the newsman said. "The first time we turn a comer, so
they can't see you do it. For all we know, they're police. We don't want
to take on a carload of fuzzies."
"Okay," Billy said. "Get our asses out of here, Les. Graf's men or
fuzzies, they're sure to be heeled."
Shaking their pursuers was child's play for Lester Bates. He was not
only a racing driver but a very smooth one, powering through the apex
of every turn, using every inch of the road.
It was only after there could be no doubt that they had lost their
pursuers that Les turned to Forry. "Where do you want to go?"
Forry gave directions and then, after a time, said, "That tavern, there.
Pull in behind it."
Roy looked at him. "You don't mean we're hiding out in a roadside bar?"
The little man grunted amusement. "Hardly. That's just where we drop
this car. You know what's happened by this time? Whoever was
following us has noted our license number and relayed it to either the
police or some of their own organization. So we switch. I have a car
stashed here; the owner's an old drinking buddy who can keep his
mouth shut."
Dick Samuelson looked over at him as they pulled into the parking area.
"Even if the Graf's hit men are working him over?"
"No, not then," Forry admitted, drawing deeply on his cigarette. "But
Ted doesn't know enough to tell them anything. His instructions are to
give them the truth. We left a hovercar here and later picked it up,
leaving this one in its place."
They pulled up beside the vehicle he indicated. Les looked at it
questioningly. He said, "It has no license plates. That'll make it
conspicuous."
Forry nodded. "On purpose. Ted couldn't tell anybody what the numbers
were, even if he wanted to. We'll put the plates on shortly, down the
road a bit."
Continually checking to see whether they had picked up new pursuers,
they finally made it to their destination. It was an old house on the
beach to the south of Miami, fairly well isolated. Undoubtedly, it had
once been the winter home of a wealthy northerner. Forry had Les
Bates back the car into the garage, so that it would be hidden from
view but poised for escape.
The six of them went into the rambling one-story villa. Forry led the
way to the living room. Roy looked about him. "How'd you manage this?"
Forry said, "I rented it for a week, using my international credit card.
I've got a few thousand saved up. We won't use your million a day until
after we've made our initial play. We don't want them to zero in on us
at this stage."
They all found seats in comfort chairs or on couches. Ron said, on edge,
"What happens now?"
Forry said, "In a minute, one of you go up to the sundeck on the roof as
a sentry. But I want to talk to you first, before the others get here."
"What others?" Roy said.
"You'll see," Forry told him. He looked around at Ron, Les, Dick, and
Billy, ran his tongue thoughtfully over his gray lower lip, and said, "The
question becomes, how do Roy and I know we can trust you? I think his
idea of getting Wobbly members to act as his bodyguard, rather than
professionals, was a good one. In the past, Deathwish Policyholders
have hired professionals. Often they wound up getting hit by their own
guards, who were either bribed by the Graf's men, or were already on
his payroll. No offense intended, but how can we know that one of you
can't be gotten to, if the bribe's big enough?"
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 know 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 pseudo-dollars 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 attache
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 pseudo-dollars, 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 pseudo-dollars 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 temporary, 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 speech-writer. 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 attache 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 Grafs 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 pseudo-dollars 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
WC 113 VC.
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 modern
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 asked 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 axlike 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.
Lee got out, flashed him a smile, and said, "I have an appointment with
Signorina Duff-Roberts. Meanwhile, I am not sure where I'll be staying
tonight. Could you get my bags and hold them for me somewhere?"
He bowed again. "Signorina Garrett?"
"Why, yes."
"Your things will be taken up to your suite, Signorina."
"Thank you." Lee's eyebrows went up slightly but her poise was built in.
So: she had a suite in the Palazzo Colonna!
Without doubt there would be a small plaque on the door reading
Lucretia Borgia Slept Here, or some such.
Inside the entrance were four more young men, in outfits of pages,
complete to satin berets with tassels atop. They had been lounging, idly
talking among themselves, but now one advanced for a sweeping bow,
very much in character. "The Palazzo is not open to the public,
Signorina."
"I'm Lee Garrett," she told him. "I have an appointment…"
"Of course, Signorina," he blurted. "If you will come this way. Signorina
Duff-Roberts awaits you."
She followed him up the impressive stone stairway to the vestibule.
Years ago, her father had brought her here to see the famed home of
what had once been the most powerful family in Rome. Popes had been
born here, and cardinals without number, and kings, queens, dukes,
duchesses. In the vestibule were paintings of several schools, including
Van Dyke, Murillo, and Lotto.
The way led them through the Hall of the Colonna Bellica, past the
steps leading down to the Great Hall, and then up another stairway
almost as magnificent as that at the entrance to the palace. The
priceless treasures of the palace might have been expressed in
tonnage. Then followed a series of coldly superb chambers, each a
museum of murals, marbles, and tapestries. Why would anyone choose
to live in such a place? But then they arrived at the spacious salon of
Sheila Duff-Roberts.
There was no identity screen set into the magnificent carved door; that
would have been a desecration. Her guide knocked softly and then,
without waiting for a response, opened the door and closed it behind
her.
On her visit as a youngster, Lee hadn't been in this part of the
rambling building. In those days it had still been occupied by
descendants of the Colonna family and visitors had been excluded from
the private quarters. This room had obviously once been one of the
minor salons, now converted into a baroque office. The furniture was of
the fifteenth or sixteenth century, with all the stiffly uncomfortable
appearance of that era.
Sheila Duff-Roberts arose from her chair behind the desk. She was a
large woman physically, but was built in handsome proportion. She
enjoyed the long limbs and proud carriage of an Olympic champion. Her
face was classical and she knew how to bring out her best features. Her
hairdo, cosmetics, and jewelry were the products of experts. Basically,
hers was a severe face, brightly intelligent rather than friendly, and
her smile was cool. A cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth,
man-style. She was dressed in a slack suit which Lee recognized as the
latest style in Common Europe. She approached Lee briskly, hand
outstretched. It proved to be a warm, firm hand, somehow projecting a
caressing quality.
Sheila Duff-Roberts said throatily, "Well, my dear, in spite of your
photographs, I didn't expect you to look quite so darling."
Lee didn't quite know how to respond to that. To cover the fact, she
looked at the desk and said, "Marvelous."
It was done in sandalwood and was adorned with lapis lazuli, amethysts,
and other semi-precious stones. In the front it had twelve small
amethyst columns, and at the top, gilt statuettes representing the
Muses and Apollo seated under a laurel tree.
The other chuckled and said, "Isn't it beautiful—in a repulsive sort of
way? I couldn't resist; had it moved in from the Room of the Desks.
One of the others there is possibly even worse. It's done in ebony with
twenty-eight ivory bas reliefs, and the central relief is a copy of
Michelangelo's Last Judgment. A real monstrosity. We'll get it for your
office, if you'd like. But do sit down, darling. You're Lee Garrett, of
course. I'm Sheila Duff-Roberts."
Feeling a little overwhelmed, Lee took the sixteenth century chair the
other indicated. She said, "Yes, Ms. Duff-Roberts. I was given
instructions by Gary McBride to…"
"Yes, of course." Sheila Duff-Roberts strode briskly around her ornate
desk, resumed her chair, and touched a sheaf of papers before her.
"I've been going over your qualifications. Very impressive, my dear."
Lee said, "What qualifications? I haven't the slightest idea what my
duties are. Mr. McBride only told me I was to work for the Central
Committee of the World Club."
The other smiled her sparse smile and dispatched her cigarette in an
elaborate ceramic work never meant, by the artist who had conceived it
half a millennium ago, as an ashtray.
She said, "You were selected by our computers as my secretary,
darling."
Lee let out her breath, trying to disguise exasperation. "But what is
your position? What do you do? What are these qualifications I'm
supposed to have?"
"Relax, dear. I'm the secretary." She took another cigarette from a
medieval gold and ivory box and lit it with a modern gold desk lighter.
"One of your qualifications is that you don't need the job. Or any other
job, for that matter. You're filthy rich, dear."
Lee looked at her blankly.
The Junoesque woman said, "So are all our other upper-echelon
personnel. If they were not born with such resources, we make them
available. In short, none of us is motivated by desire for money. We
already have money. We are motivated by the dream."
"What dream?" Lee said, still far out of her depth.
The other let heavy smoke flow from her nostrils. "The dream is to
create a stable world, Lee. It's been dreamed before, throughout
history. For limited periods it has even been achieved, here and there—
in Egypt for centuries; in Mexico by the Mayans; in China, at least to a
certain degree, before the coming of the Europeans."
Lee said, "What do you mean by stability?"
"For the first time, darling, the human race finds itself in a position to
achieve a stable, unchanging society on a worldwide basis. No national
disorders, wars, or extreme poverty."
"It sounds like quite a dream," Lee said skeptically. "I knew the World
Club was a nonprofit think-factory seeking solutions to current
problems, but I had no idea its scope was so all-embracing. Frankly, I'm
having second thoughts. It sounds—well, impossible. It's true that I
want it to be something rational. Not a… forgive me… pipe dream."
The secretary of the World Club chuckled throatily again. "Lee, darling,
do you approve of GAS in the United States of the Americas?"
"I think so. I can't think of any other manner of dealing with mass
unemployment brought on by automation."
"And do you approve of the United States taking in any North or South
American country that wished statehood?"
"I think it was one of the most intelligent acts my country has ever
performed."
"Both were subtly engineered by the World Club."
"But that's ridiculous. I've never even heard a rumor of such a thing."
Sheila smiled. "I said 'subtly,' did I not? First steps, darling. You see,
our basic desire is to maintain the status quo in society, based on what
now prevails in America and Common Europe. However, we are not really
a conservative organization, certainly not a reactionary one. The World
Club is quite revolutionary, in the broadest sense of the word. It aims
at a stable, desirable world for the overwhelming majority. It cannot
be all things to all people, but it can aim at making a stable society for
the average person. To do this we must align ourselves against
subversive elements: nihilist terrorists, the Wobblies in the States,
Eurocommunists in Common Europe, even the Anti-Racist League. But we
are not reactionary."
"I see," Lee said, somewhat less doubtfully. "What are some of the
other ills that the World Club thinks it can solve?"
The handsome Amazon shrugged. "Bringing all religions together under
the leadership of the United Church, perhaps. A universal language
based on Esperanto. We already have a committee working on this.
Meanwhile, English is the nearest to a universal language that we now
have. Elimination of differences in religion and language will help
guarantee a world society which will last indefinitely."
"English, a universal language?" Lee said. "I thought there were a billion
Chinese who spoke Mandarin."
Sheila chuckled in her humorless manner. "Touche," she said. "But most
all of them are in China. The problem of assimilating China into our
world society will have to be held in abeyance for the time. By the way,
are you a women's rights advocate?"
"In most ways," Lee nodded. "However, I don't claim that women are
equal to men in all respects."
The other looked at her sharply. "Why not? Certainly women are equal
to men in all respects."
"For one thing," Lee said wryly, "they don't have as long a penis. We can
carry this chip on our shoulder to ridiculous extremes. It's like the
contention that blacks are the same as whites in all respects. Nonsense.
One has a darker complexion than the other. So far as women are
concerned—well, there has never been a female heavyweight champion
of the world. A second-rate male pro would flatten the best female
fighter who ever lived; they simply have more upper-body strength! On
the other hand, I've always thought the first astronauts should have
been women. We're generally smaller and take up less space, use less
food and oxygen, and on an average, we're more deft with our hands.
We seem to have more endurance under stress. I wonder how the
average man would hold up under a difficult childbirth."
The tall Sheila eyed her. "You have one quality that doesn't come out in
the computer reports—the strength to state strong opinions, darling.
Do you have any other questions?"
"Yes," Lee said definitely. "I'm surprised that both you and Mr.
McBride have revealed so much to me, even before I've consented to
take the position. You've told me that most workers for the World Club
don't even know it exists. But you've bared everything to me."
The other lit still another cigarette. "Not quite everything, dear," she
said dryly. "You must realize that our computers selected you above all
others. The computers seldom make mistakes in these things. We are
assured that you are the best person for the position and the
computers are of the opinion that you will take it. Obviously, it was
required that you know what you are stepping into."
Lee took a deep breath and said in resignation, "What would my duties
be?"
"This first week, to give members the chance to become acquainted
with you, since in this position you will be privy to many of their
innermost decisions. The committee is now in session and will be for the
rest of this month. Most of them are now in residence. These regular
sessions are held twice a year. They're informal, and consist largely of
their sitting around, two by two or in larger groups, and discussing
developments of the program. Not all are present at this session. Grace
Cabot-Hudson, who is rather old and infirm, remained at her residence
in North America." Sheila Duff-Roberts looked at her timepiece. "But
now, my dear, you must be tired, and will wish to see your suite and
freshen up. And I have duties, of course." Her eyes shifted slightly.
"By the way, there is to be apanous tonight. Would you be interested?"
Lee shook her head. She wasn't shocked, not in this age, but she was
somewhat surprised. She said, "No, I'm not interested in group sex."
The Amazon's brows went up. "Lesbian?"
"No."
"Pity," Sheila said. "However, perhaps in time you'll change your mind.
Which reminds me. We have a staff of half a dozen office girls." She
took her lower lip in her perfect teeth. "Some of them are quite
darling."
There was a knock at the door and a man with the look of a well-tanned
European, somewhere in his mid-thirties sauntered through. He wore
his red hair in a young athlete's crew cut and his dark blue eyes seemed
out of place in his dark complexion. There was an easygoing sardonic
quality in his smile. "Sheila," he said, "you are looking particularly
Brunhildic today. Have you been butchering male chauvinists with your
broadsword again?"
The secretary of the Central Committee snorted at that and said,
"Where the hell have you been, Jerry? I've been trying to get in touch
with you for weeks."
"Reclusing," he told her easily. "Haven't you heard? I am currently
labeled the world's wealthiest recluse and also its most eligible
bachelor. Want to get married? Oops, no, of course not."
Sheila snorted again and said, "This is Lee Garrett. She's to be my new
secretary. Lee, Mr. Jeremiah Auburn. Mr. Auburn is a member of the
Central Committee; its youngest, by the way. How he ever got into its
membership is a mystery to me."
"Mind how you speak to your superiors, Ms. Duff-Roberts," he said
amiably. And then, as he shook hands with Lee, "Wizard, we meet
again."
Lee wrinkled her forehead. "I… I've heard about you, Mr. Auburn, but
where did we ever meet? I'm sure that I would recall."
A glint of laughter came into his eyes. "It's an old ploy of mine. I'm
terrible at remembering people and women become so distressed when
I don't recall their faces, particularly if I
once spent a long weekend with them in the Bahamas, or Hawaii, or
wherever, that I say, 'Wizard, we meet again,' just to be sure." He
headed for an elaborate Florentine cabinet, which turned out to be a
disguised bar.
"How good of you, Jerry," Sheila said sarcastically. "It must be
distressing to be such a ladykiller."
"A distress you'd love to share," he said over his shoulder. And then,
"Hmmm, perhaps you do."
"I hope you worry about that a lot," Sheila said, obviously well used to
his banter.
He called, "Anybody else up to a bit of guzzle? I just checked. It's
twelve, so you won't be considered a morning lush."
Sheila asked for Scotch but Lee shook her head, still uneasy. Somehow,
this man seemed familiar; possibly it was his voice, but she knew that
she'd never seen him. There wasn't a woman in the world who could
meet Jerry Auburn and forget about it. The leading light of the rocket
set for a decade, he had suddenly reversed his engines and disappeared
from sight, in the tradition of Howard Hughes. From time to time he
would pop up in the news but largely he was, as he had said, a recluse.
Lee couldn't imagine him being a member of the World Club, much less
of its Central Committee.
He brought Sheila's drink back to her, held up his own darkish brandy
and water, and said, "Cheers, Sheila, old chum-pal. A new secretary, eh?
What happened to the ultra-efficient Pamela?"
"I'm sure you'll leam all about it," she said, and sipped. "Lee just came
in today."
"Wizard," Jerry Auburn said, looking Lee over again. He made with a
mock leer. "You certainly pick them, Sheila."
Sheila didn't disguise her impatience at that. "Attractiveness and poise
are requirements of employees who must meet the public, the news
media, and so forth, Mr. Auburn. As you very well know."
He finished the drink in one fell swoop and looked at his chronometer.
"This is as good an opportunity as any for me to become acquainted with
our beauteous Ms. Garrett. Are you available for lunch, ah, Lee?"
"Why," she said, "I haven't even seen my rooms yet, but
I'm not really tired and we didn't eat on the shuttle from Paris."
"Wizard," he said. "Then with Sheila's permission, I'll whisk you off."
"I'll see you later this afternoon, dear," Sheila told her. "Don't forget
about the, uh, party this evening, if you change your mind."
Out in the hall, as they walked toward the staircase, Jerry Auburn
grinned and said, "Has Sheila already invited you to one of her versions
of the partousT'
She looked up at him from the side of her eyes. "Yes."
"I went to one once. They're rather in the far-out line—in the Roman
tradition of Nero. Not my cup of tea. I love ladies one at a time and I
don't like boys at all. And I'll leave the building of horizontal pyramids
to the pharaohs. Must've been unhealthy; they're all dead, I notice."
She laughed. "We seem to share similar ideas," she told him, before
realizing that he might misinterpret that.
He chuckled and took her arm as they began to descend the stairs
without saying anything further on the subject of sex.
The pages at the door came hurriedly to attention as Jeremiah Auburn
approached, as did the guards with their halberds.
There was a beautiful sportster at the curb, one of the extreme
models from Bucharest. Lee was moderately surprised when he ushered
her to it and saw her seated on the passenger side. "You have
permission to drive your own car in Rome?" she said.
"Ranking members of the World Club have their prerogatives, Lee.
Having our central headquarters here is a feather in the caps of the
city fathers. They turned over the Palazzo Colonna to us about ten
years ago. Do you know Rome? Any preferences on where to eat?"
"I haven't been here for years. I'll leave it to you."
"Wizard, let's say the Hostaria dell'Orso. I believe it's supposed to be
the oldest restaurant in town. Dante used to live in the building."
He turned the corner and sped down the Via Battisti in the direction of
the looming monstrosity that was the monument to Vittorio Emanuele.
As they passed it, Lee shook her head. "Imagine leveling several acres
of the Roman forum to erect that thing."
"My sentiments exactly," he said. "So, you're to be Sheila's new
secretary. Did she give you her song and dance about the dream?"
Lee looked over at him in some surprise. "She made rather a moving
appeal for the goals of the World Club, a stable society in which most
of history's problems would be solved."
Jerry laughed softly. "Did she discuss her final solution to the women's
rights problem?"
"Why, no. She asked how I stood on the question but we didn't go very
far into it."
He said, "I suspect her goal is the reestablishment of a matrilineal
society. Get Sheila a bit into her cups and she begins to point out that
women predominate numerically in the world but for all practical
purposes are ignored in its governing. For instance, we've never had a
female president of the United States. I suspect that Sheila wouldn't
object to taking the job." He grinned again. "I can just see a whole
cabinet of lesbians."
Lee said, confused, "But what does motivate the Central Committee, if
not what Sheila calls the dream?"
He shot a look over at her, even as he maneuvered through the narrow
streets. "Did our good Sheila tell you anything about the composition of
the Central Comitttee?"
"No, not yet. Aside from you, she mentioned Grace Cabot-Hudson."
"And what do you know about Grace?"
"Not much, really. Isn't she supposed to be the richest woman in the
world?"
"Uh huh. And what do you know about me?"
"Well, aside from the news media nonsense, not much. Oh, yes, I've
heard that you were possibly the richest man in the world."
Jerry laughed outright. "Harrington Chase would hate you for that."
"You mean that anti-semitic Texan who supports those ultra-right wing
organizations. Good heavens, what has he got to do with it?"
"Harrington's a member of the Central Committee, my dear. So is
Mendel Amschel, for that matter, which sometimes drives poor
Harrington up the wall."
"The Viennese banker? He's another one that's sometimes called the
richest man. Why should Mr. Chase object to him?"
"If you count his whole family, Mendel may control more wealth than
anyone else. The irony is that while he's a Jew, I doubt if he's religious
at all. Ah, here we are."
The Hostaria dell'Orso was located in a medieval palace, elegant and
very expensive. Jerry Auburn asked the maitre d' for a private dining
room and they were immediately escorted to the second floor.
"Sorry," Jerry said to Lee. "There are still some who remember my
face, especially women. Unfortunately, I'm seldom mentioned without
that 'most eligible bachelor' label being hung around my neck, as though
anybody bothered to get married anymore. But even in a place like this,
it can be a hazard. Especially when radicals sometimes send a nut case
to nice joints on the off chance that they can take a shot at some
bloated aristocrat like me."
"No wonder you're a recluse," she told him in a low voice, as they were
shown into a luxurious private room.
The maitre d' turned them over to a captain and bowed himself out.
The captain gave them menus and stood back, his face stolid.
"Are you a bloated aristocrat too?" Jerry said as they scanned their
cartes.
"I suppose so," she sighed. "But not as bloated as you are. I'm sure I'm
not bloated enough for a Nihilist to take a crack at me, as you put it."
He looked over at her appreciatively and said, "Bloat is not the word.
Zaftig, guapa, sleek—those are the words."
"Oh, hush," she said, laughing.
When the captain was gone, Lee looked at him accusingly. She said,
"Very well, then. If you don't have the dream, why are you a member of
the Central Committee?"
He thought about that a moment. "Probably to protect my own
interests."
"And all of the other members?"
"To protect theirs. That's what motivates almost everyone, you know—
their own interests."
She looked at him in disbelief. ' 'Sheila said that it was the World Club
which pushed through the assimilating of the United States of the
Americas. In my opinion that is the
outstanding political development of this century. How did that protect
your interests, Mr. Auburn?"
He smiled mockingly at her and said with deliberate pomposity, "Ms.
Garrett, the greater part of my investments are in multinational
corporations. Almost all corporations of any size are multinationals
these days, staffed by the most competent people the computers can
locate. But we still have our Cubas to deal with. Americans owned
practically everything in basic Cuban industry until Castro took it over.
No buy-out, nothing; lady, the investors took some lumps. Why d'you
think the CIA financed the Bay of Pigs invasion? To let us get 'our'
Cuba back! We feared Allende, in Chile, might take the Castro route, so
Allende was murdered and a military junta took over, demolishing what
was left of democracy in Chile. However, we could never be sure that
our properties were safe. Now, Ms. Garrett, with the establishment of
the United States of the Americas, they are safe. And so are all the
raw materials of Latin America, in return for a comparatively small
amount of GAS to keep the peons pacified."
She was inwardly upset. "I still say it was a wonderful step of
progress."
"Wizard," he said. "I didn't say that the Central Committee worked
against the interests of the majority of people. It was to the personal
interest of Washington, Jefferson, John Hancock, and Franklin to win
independence from England. They were all rich men. But it was also a
good thing for the poorer colonists as well."
She looked confused, doubtful.
He grinned wryly and said, "Believe me, Lee, in taking all of Latin
America into the United States, the multinationals didn't exactly lose
money. Oh, in some of the poorer countries and islands, we drew blanks
temporarily. But how do we know what riches might lie under the
jungles of, say, Paraguay? Just imagine taking over such nations as
Brazil, potentially almost as rich as the original United States. Not to
speak of Mexico, Venezuela, and Bolivia, with all their unexploited raw
materials. We get contracts for high-rise apartments for all the new
recipients of GAS. And somebody has to get richer building roads,
public transportation, communications systems, power distribution
systems. Believe me, Lee, the multi-nationals did not lose money when
the States invited Latin America to join our union."
She said, still arguing, "But the expense of putting all of those millions
on GAS. Your taxes have skyrocketed. It surely must have
counterbalanced…"
He was smiling still. "No. You'd be amazed how cheaply a prole can be
maintained from the cradle to the grave. Planned obsolescence has
disappeared, so far as the prole is concerned. Everything he consumes
has been produced by the most advanced automated equipment. He
wears textiles that last damn near forever. He lives in prefab buildings
that can be erected overnight. He eats mass-produced foods
manufactured largely in factories: His entertainment is canned. His
medical care is computerized and automated, as is the pitiful education
he wants. I repeat: it costs practically nothing to send a prole from the
cradle to the grave."
The waiter entered with Jerry Auburn's cognac, put it on the table,
and stepped back.
Lee felt puzzlement but did not know why. Perhaps it was something
subtle in the waiter's movements.
Suddenly, Jerry Auburn knocked back his chair and spun. His foot
lashed out and upward with the grace of a ballet dancer and kicked the
small automatic in the hand of the slim, now snarling, Italian waiter. The
weapon struck the ceiling before falling to the side.
The waiter cursed in some dialect that neither of the two diners
understood and snatched for something in his clothing.
Jerry reversed himself, his back to the other, and lashed out with his
foot again, high. The shoe connected with the chin and mouth of the
attacker, who was slammed back viciously against the wall behind him.
In a daze, he slid down to the floor. Jerry did not see the automatic.
Lee got out in a gasp, "Where did you ever learn Savate?"
"From the first guy who used it on me," he said. "We bloated
aristocrats learn fast, don't we?"
"Yes, we do," she said, and displayed the automatic in her hand.
Chapter Eleven: The Graf
On the Eastern side of the Rhine, between the Orisons and Lake
Constance, lies a tiny baroque toy of a country, Liechtenstein, the last
remnant of the Holy Roman Empire and, save for Switzerland, the only
nation in western Europe still aloof from the loose confederation called
Common Europe. It boasts a population of some 22,000 and an area of
62 square miles, supposedly still a monarchy under His Highness Prince
Johann Alois Heinrich Benediktus Gerhardus von und zu Liechtenstein
und Duke von Troppau und Jaegerndorf. The prince had gone bankrupt a
quarter of a century earlier and these days lived a rocket-set
existence on the proceeds of the outright sale of his country. The
buyer was Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, who now resided in the
Wolfschloss. The schloss, once a robber-baron stronghold, had been
built in the 13th century, burned in the Swabian Wars of 1499, then
last overhauled in the late 20th century. The Wolfschloss was a forty-
minute climb by path northeast of Vaduz, the tiny capital of
Liechtenstein, or a few minutes by modern road ending in a cablecar
terminal which provided access to the castle. The climb was forbidden
to such tourists as still came to the country, and the road was private—
unbelievably well patrolled. There were various roadblocks along it.
Liechtenstein had once owed its prosperity to tourism, the winter sport
industry, and its many editions of colorful stamps. Since its acquisition
by Graf Lothar von Brandenburg it was no longer prosperous, save for
Vaduz, whose working population was largely employed by the Graf
himself. Tourism was barely tolerated, certainly not encouraged, and
the ski resorts were either closed down or sparsely patronized. The
once-famous art collection of the Vaduz Museum was now largely to be
found in the Wolfschloss.
The office of the Graf contained no desk, and had precious little else
to resemble a business office. One whole wall was of glass and looked
out on an unsurpassed view of the Rhine Valley over part of the castle's
ward. There was but one article of decoration, a Franz Hals, which
dominated another wall. The office presented an air of Spartan luxury,
as it were: austere but very, very expensive.
This morning it was occupied by three people.
Lothar von Brandenburg, at sixty-five, was still hale and in season skied
each morning, or hunted his extensive game preserves. He also made a
point of swimming thirty laps of the large swimming pool he'd had
installed in the courtyard of a schloss so extensive that a regiment of
cavalry could have paraded there. He was only five feet four but had a
lean, athletic build. His short hair, once blond, was now a platinum
white. It was his eyes that were most remarkable. The irises were of
flecked smoky grey and they had no expression. Whatever went on
behind the smokescreen, nothing came through. With few exceptions,
people newly introduced to Lothar von Brandenburg were uncomfortable
about his eyes. He dressed during the day in formal business wear,
complete with dark cravat, although ties had seldom been worn for half
a century. His suits were invariably faultless; though it was untrue that
he never wore one twice, still they gave that impression.
Peter Windsor was of a very different sort. Possibly twenty years
younger than the man he served as second in command, he was fresh of
face, lime green of eye, handsome in the English aristocrat manner.
Over six feet tall, his lank body gave an impression of indolence if not
downright laziness, he being inclined to sprawl rather than sit. From
this graceful indolence, one could easily reach a wrong impression. Peter
Windsor, which was not the name with which he had been christened,
had come to the attention of the Graf some twenty-five years in the
past when the pink-cheeked lad gained a field promotion to brigade
commander in a desperately close-fought action in East Africa. Most of
the senior mercenary officers were casualties. The Graf had
immediately drawn Windsor under his wing, knowing a good thing when
he saw one.
The third person was Margit Krebs, long-time secretary, stenographer,
girl Friday, and brain trust of the Graf. Her hair was black, unlikely for
a Dane, and her face was not Scandinavian, but broad with a wide chin
and Magyar cheekbones— the kind of face that aged slowly. Indeed,
she could have passed for anywhere between thirty and fifty. She
invariably dressed in British tweeds during the business day, which
understated her marvelous legs and figure.
The Graf lowered himself precisely into his favorite heavy leather
chair and nodded to his two underlings. "Margit, Peter," he said, even as
he pressed a button set into the side of the chair's arm.
"Good morning, chief," Peter Windsor said.
And, "Good morning, Herr Graf," Margit told him.
A side door opened and a servant entered. He was garbed in the
medieval livery of a Germanic court and bore a tray with coffee things.
All were of gold save the Dresden cups. The servant, granite of
expression, put the tray on the small table about which the three sat.
"Thank you, Sepp," the Graf said and reached for the pot.
"Bitte," Sepp murmured, then bowed and backed from the room.
Peter, as he watched the other pour, said, "Lothar, if the organization
ever goes broke we can flog this service of yours and retire in comfort,
I shouldn't wonder."
His superior didn't smile but said, "It was ever my boyhood ambition,
Peter, to start the day off having one's breakfast and morning
beverage served on gold."
When all had their coffee in hand, the Graf turned his enigmatic gaze
on his second. "Und zo, Peter: the day's crises?"
The tall Englishman, dressed with all-out informality in sweatshirt,
slacks, and tennis shoes, had a clipboard beside him. He took it up
saying, "No real crises this morning, Chief." He looked at the top sheet
on the clipboard. "A contract has come through to have Senator Miles
Deillon hit. One of his business competitors."
"Ah, the American agricultural tycoon? Why bring it to my attention?
Couldn't you have handled such a routine matter? A senator, eh, and a
major landowner at that. It would be a double-A contract, very
lucrative."
Peter nodded. "But there may be complications."
The older man nodded, waiting.
Peter said, "The senator has had his wind up for some time. Afraid of
being kidnapped or worse by the American Nihilists, you know. We
supply his bodyguard. Three men per shift on a round-the-clock basis—
nine men in all."
"Yes? And the complication?" The Graf sipped his coffee, holding the
cup in a small womanish hand.
His British subordinate blinked. "I say, we can't be hired both to
assassinate a man and guard him from assassination.''
"Why not?"
Peter put down his own cup of coffee and closed his eyes for a moment.
"Well…"he said.
The Graf waved a hand negatively. "I assume that Luca Cellini in New
York is supplying the guards. If he fails in protecting the senator, it
will be a mark against his reputation in the organization. I assume your
hit men will come from the ranks of Jacques's Corsicans. They're the
best. Very well, if they are unsuccessful in their attempt, Jacques will
be shamed. Luca and Jacques are good organization men but we cannot
put up with incompetence. Too many contracts inefficiently carried out
would lead to a bad image and our competitors would take advantage. I
would dislike seeing either of these men go, but business is business.
There are many young men with us who are anxious for promotion,
willing and ready to step into the shoes of either Luca or Jacques."
Peter shook his head and made a mark with his stylo on the sheet of
paper, then folded it back to scan the next one. "I've still got much to
learn in this field."
The Graf said, "Speaking of competitors, it has come to my attention
that our Colonel Boris Rivas, in Paris, is again taking measures to
undersell us and provide a mercenary group for some chief in Mali who
wishes to overthrow a neighbor. Approach the colonel once more with a
suggestion that he join with us."
Peter said, after making his note, "There's one small item that might
be of interest. One of these so-called Deathwish Policies. We get
several a day, of course, but this is an exception."
"Yes?" the older man said politely.
"A chap named Roy Cos. He took a standard contract with Brett-James
in Nassau. It seemed simply routine."
"Really, Peter, this is a minor matter."
"It has its element. You see, the clod's disappeared—dropped out of
sight. Hasn't used the International Credit Card Brett-James issued
him nor, for that matter, his own American card. The lads assigned to
hit Cos can't put the bloody crosshairs on him."
The Graf frowned. "It seems to me that we had a similar case some
years ago which eventually cost us quite a bit." He looked over at
Margit, who sat quietly, hands in her lap. "Refresh me on our position in
this regard, my dear Fraulein."
Margit said, "If the subject is liquidated within the first week of the
contract, we receive half a million pseudo-dollars. However, this amount
is lowered to a quarter million if he is not liquidated within the
following week. If three weeks elapse before he is eliminated, instead
of being recompensed at all, we pay a penalty of half a million pseudo-
dollars for each day he survives."
"Indeed? Yes, now it comes back to me." He looked at Peter Windsor.
"I assume that you have investigated. Have you come to any
conclusion?"
"I checked this Roy Cos's Dossier Complete. He is a national organizer
of the Wobblies."
The Graf turned his empty eyes to Margit.
She closed her eyes and began to recite in an inflectionless voice. "A
revolutionary group founded in 1903 by American unionists, anarchists,
and socialists, under the name Industrial Workers of the World, or
I.W.W. Their program involved organizing workers into one Big Union
which would take charge of the world's economy by legal means. For a
time they grew rapidly but their anarchists began to advocate sabotage
and violence around 1908, and the government was able to legally crush
them. By the 1930s, they had all but disappeared.
"But not quite completely. Their goals and methods have changed until
now they have few similarities to the old I.W.W. They contend that the
means of production, distribution, and so forth, should be
democratically owned and operated by the people as a whole rather
than being private property or in the hands of the State. They believe
that this would give rise to full employment and a new surge of
progress."
Peter snorted. "Full employment? With all the automation available?
They're heading for the bend, if they're not already around it.''
Margit opened her eyes. "They seem to believe that the present-day
proles, now on GAS, should be put to work in the arts, cleaning up
ecology problems, that sort of thing."
Von Brandenburg sighed. "Very well, the man is a revolutionist. Does
this have any connection with his taking out a Deathwish Policy? It
doesn't seem consistent."
The tall Englishman looked back at his notes. "He's beginning to get a
bit of publicity, don't you know? The news media are making quite a
story of it. Before, these Wobblies were seldom heard of."
His superior snapped to Margit, "Get through to Luca Cellini in New
York and have him put his best people on this. Cos is to be hit
absolutely soonest."
"Ja, Herr Graf."
They spoke alternately in English, German, and French. One might ask a
question in any of these languages and be answered in another—even
occasionally in Spanish, Italian, or Russian.
Von Brandenburg looked back at Peter Windsor. "How is that fracas in
Somalia progressing?"
"Dormant. However, the Sheik has put in an order for two hundred
infantrymen and six hover-tanks, the British Vickers model."
The Graf looked at his secretary. "Do we have them available?"
"At the Gao depot," Margit said. "They can be available for shipping
within twenty-four hours, with crews."
Peter shook his head. "Where does the beggar get the funds for a
contract of this size? One would think there would be Sweet Fanny
Adams in his treasury."
"From the Arab Union," his chief told him. And then, "Speaking of
Africa, what is the latest on Mahem Dhu? I had an indignant call from
the Prophet's man last night. This fanatic's movement is spreading like
wildfire. He wants the man to be taken care of immediately."
Peter nodded. "It's had its complications, you know. I put Spyros Kakia
on it. He's our best cover-builder and analyzer. Spyros concluded that
hitting the so-called Mahdi wouldn't be overly difficult; he's out in
public constantly, for all practical purposes without guards, as befits a
holy man. But Spyros sees no possibility of a successful hit. I fancied
that our only possibility was to locate a gull—a patsy, as the Yanks call
it. One's turned up from the States. Chap named Franklin Pinell, a
deportee. Guilty of a homicide romp. He was duped into selecting
Tangier for his refuge and that Aussie Nat Fraser took over. Pinell was
stripped of everything and then convincingly taken under the wing of
Ram Panikkar, with his usual efficiency. A bit of a swine, Ram, but
unbeatable at this sort of thing. Pinell is grateful to Ram and agreed to
take the Mahdi assignment. His cover will be as a media man, which will
guarantee his access to Mahem Dhu. He'll perform the hit." Peter
sighed. "Unfortunately, the fast chopper which is supposedly posted
for his escape will never materialize."
The Graf nodded acceptance. "Those fanatical followers will tear him to
pieces." He frowned. "What did you say his name was?"
Peter looked down at his clipboard. "Franklin Pinell."
Von Brandenburg thought about it, his smoky eyes nan-owing. He said
finally, "What was the name of Buck Pinell's son? Remember? Buck was
always proudly bringing forth his wallet and insisting we look at his
snapshots."
His right-hand man thought back. "Frankie," he said.
"The name isn't that common." The Graf looked at Margit. "Buck Pinell
was before your time, Fraulein, but get me his dossier and that of this
Franklin Pinell." He looked back at Peter Windsor. "What was Buck's
real first name?"
"Willard, wasn't it? He never used it. I didn't know him as well as you
did, Lothar. What was it the news chaps used to call him? The Lee
Christmas of the 21st century."
"Yes," the Graf murmured. "We were young men together in the early
days of the organization. My best friend, I suppose you would say. Who
was Lee Christmas, Fraulein?"
Margit Krebs had already activated the communications screen which
sat next to her chair, to order the required dossiers. Now her eyes
seemed to film and she recited, "Lee Christmas, most notable of the
pre-World War One American mercenaries, operated in South and
Central America. Almost singlehanded he was successful in several
revolutions and military revolts, especially in Honduras. He would attain
high rank in the new administration but inevitably step on the wrong
toes and be dismissed, often to flee for his life. Later he might return
and participate in the overthrow of the government he had brought to
power. A lone soldier of fortune who owned a Maxim or Vickers machine
gun, could gather a handful of followers and defeat a Central American
army. He was considered unique among the other mercenaries because
he refused to fight on the side he thought in the wrong.''
The Graf laughed softly, which brought Peter Windsor's eyebrows up.
The other wasn't prone to displaying humor. "That sounds like Buck," he
said. "It was his one shortcoming."
He came to his feet absently and went over to the huge window to
stare out over the Furstensteig path along the high ridge dividing the
Rhine and Samina valleys. The peaks reached six to seven thousand
feet, the highest in the Leichtenstein Alps.
The dossiers, in printout, dropped from the slot in front of the
secretary. Margit took them up and quickly scanned them. She said,
"You were correct, Herr Graf. Franklin Pinell is the son of Willard
Pinell. Their photos are even remarkably similar."
Lothar von Brandenburg said musingly, "And why was young Franklin
deported?"
"He had four felonies on his record. The final one was decisive. He shot
a man to death."
"Why?"
"He refused to reveal that. His victim was evidently unarmed, shot
down in cold blood." The revelation didn't faze Margit Krebs.
The Graf turned and faced Peter Windsor, who was already eyeing his
superior in concern. He said, "Find an alternative gobemouche to
liquidate the Mahdi."
Peter stood, one hand out in protest. "Oh, look here, Lothar, this is a
million-dollar contract! We can't afford to flub it, don't you know? The
Prophet would be incensed. This Pinell chap seems to be a natural, and I
daresay it might take donkey's years to find another dupe."
The older man's expressionless, smoky eyes took him in. "I will not
condone the sacrifice of the son of Buck Pinell, Peter."
"I didn't expect sentiment from you, Chief."
"Neither did I. However, I suggest that instead of the Mahdi contract,
you send young Pinell to Paris. Have him remonstrate with Colonel Rivas,
who seems to be getting too big for his britches, as Buck would have
put it. Let him accompany Nat Fraser on the assignment. The Australian
is an old hand; he can report how Franklin Pinell reacts to being
blooded. I'll want a full report from him and then, possibly, we'll have
Buck's son here to the Wolfschloss to gather our own impressions."
His second in command shrugged it off, clearly dissatisfied, and turned
back to his clipboard. "Now: this Dave Carlton chap in New Jersey has
been poaching on our military surplus enterprises. Last week he sold one
hundred Skoda assault rifles to Chavez, that guerrilla in Colombia who
is attempting to arouse the Colombians to throw off their affiliations
with the United States of the Americas."
Chapter Twelve: The Nihilists
Rick Flavelle looked over at his sole surviving companion, who leaned
against the steel wall near one of the gunports.
Rick said, "It's damn quiet."
"Yeah," Alfredo said. "Ever since they yelled for us to surrender and
you told them to get fucked. You know what they're doing? They're
bringing up something to open up this tin can."
"Hell," Rick said, checking the clip in his Gyrojet automatic. "They'd
need a laser rifle. How's your arm?"
"I immobilized it with a syrette. But it's sure as hell useless. How's
your side?"
"Okay," Rick lied. He carefully slid back the slide of his gunport and
peered out. There was nothing to be seen.
The steel pillbox in which they were making their ultimate stand was
beautifully camouflaged in almost the exact center of the Dunninger
Mountain resort home, in a beautiful patio garden. Beautiful, but on the
shot-up and bombed-out side right now. From the exterior, as they well
knew, the pillbox looked like an innocent rock garden. One had to
scramble about it quite carefully to find the well-disguised door, not to
speak of the gunports.
Rick said, "How's your ammo?"
"Down to the last clip. I'm too fucked up with this dead arm to throw
the clip and count them."
"You better click the stud over to single fire," Rick said.
The other made a face in pain and growled, "You think I'm a dizzard? I
long since did that."
Rick brought his gun up and carefully brought the barrel to the
gunport. He squinted and gently, gently, squeezed the trigger.
"What the hell you shooting at?" Alfredo growled. "Did you get him?"
"I don't know. Just keeping them honest. I thought I saw something
move. You think the bastards might be gone?"
The other laughed bitterly. "You think the fucking sun will rise in the
west tomorrow? Why should they be gone? We've had it. Whatever
they want, it's sitting in their laps now. I haven't heard any fire from
the other boys for ten minutes. They've had it."
"What they want is Dunninger," Rick said emptily. "He was the only one
here when they came in. All the family just left for Mexico. Have you
called him?"
"Hell, no. He's down there in the bomb shelter, probably shitting his
pants. Damn this arm. You know, maybe Cliff had some shells left."
Rick looked over at the body lying still where it had fallen. "He had an
assault rifle," he said. "The ammo wouldn't fit either of our gyros."
Alfredo snarled, ' 'Use your goddamned head. Get his rifle, and when
you've used up your rocket shells, use his gun, I'd get it myself but you
can move easier."
Rick nodded, leaned his automatic against the metal wall, and painfully
made his way over to the fallen body. There was little chance of enemy
fire penetrating the two small gunports but he moved in a crouch,
instinctively. The wound in his side wasn't helping any. He could have
taken a syrette to localize it but he wasn't sure of the effect. He
couldn't afford to have his whole right side paralyzed.
The inert Cliff had no spare clips. That stupid bastard Dunninger had
insisted that their uniforms be neat and presentable. He didn't want
them distracting the family and visitors with bandoliers of ammunition
and grenades dangling from their belts. So, aside from the clips they'd
had in their weapons, the bodyguards had at most two spares. They had
largely used them up in the first moments of the assault on the
Dunninger home. And from then on, they'd had insufficient firepower
to keep the attackers at bay. It had been a balls-up from the start.
Nobody had time to make his way to the little armory for more ammo.
Rick worked his way back to his gunport, trailing the assault rifle
behind him. His side was feeling worse by the minute.
He peered through the small port again. He said, trying to keep down
their mutual fear and apprehension by talk, "What the hell happened,
anyway? Who are they?"
"The Holy Mother only knows. If that stupid bastard Luca Cellini hadn't
pulled the other four guys off, we would've had a chance. But eight of
us weren't enough, especially with one shift sacked out when the sons
of bitches hit."
Rick said, "Cellini was rotating them. Another four guards were
supposed to show up for replacements."
"Yeah?" the other sneered. "Bullshit. It's too much of a coincidence.
Old man Dunninger's family leaves him alone here, four of his
bodyguards are relieved, and next thing we know, we're all in the dill.
There must be twenty of the bastards out there. They knocked off the
dogs and three of the boys before we got wise. We're lucky we made it
to this overgrown tin can with me covering for that fat cat Dunninger.
Listen, there's not enough money in the country to pay for holding down
a job like this."
Rick said wanly, "You should have thought of that during the two years
we've been on this cushy assignment."
"Yeah, great, but I wish Luca Cellini was here with us right now. Or,
better still, the Graf himself. You know what we oughta do, Rick? Call
out and tell 'em we're willing to surrender if they won't kill us. Hell,
they don't want us, they want old man Dunninger.''
His companion, his side cramping up now, looked over sarcastically.
"Sure, Al. And then spend the rest of our lives on the run from the
Graf. He doesn't like his boys to surrender. And what happens if we
do? Not only are we on the run but that's the end of any compensation,
any pension, any further credits from him at all. We'd be back on GAS
and, so far as I'm concerned, I've got two kids I want to get through a
good school, two kids I want to leave a few shares of U.S. Variable
Basic Stock so they won't wind up living on nothing but GAS the rest of
their lives."
"Oh, great," the other sneered. "Two kids, eh? A regular one-man
population explosion. Well, I'm not that far around the bend, Rick. I
don't have any kids. I'm on my own. Those guys out there'll let us go.
They want the big shot hiding down in the bomb shelter, not us. Screw
the Graf. We'll worry about him when the time comes. We've both
copped one, haven't we? What does he expect?"
Rick shrugged it off and peered through his gunport. He thought he
could hear something going on in the house. What a sonofabitch of a
pickled situation. If the attackers were smart enough to just wait it
out another hour, he and Alfredo would have stiffened up to the point
that they couldn't resist anyway.
There came a heavy explosion up against the door that threw him to
the steel floor of the small pillbox. He landed, agonizingly, on his
wounded side. He lay there, breathing deeply, not sure he could move. A
thin piercing tone began a steady whistle in his ear.
He called out finally, "You all right, Al? They've got some kind of heavy
weapon out there. That was an explosive shell, not just a bomb."
"Shit! Whad'da'ya mean, am I all right? I keep telling you, we've had it!
Yell to them. Toss in the towel."
Another ear-blasting explosion whumped against the steel door. It
sagged inward.
"Oh, Jesus," Rick panted. "Why can't those four new guards show up?
Take 'em from the rear." He struggled to work his Gyrojet automatic
around.
"You stupid dreamer, you," Alfredo got out. "They're not coming. We've
been set up. Left holding the fucking sack."
The next explosion blew the heavy door off its hinges, sent it crashing
to the floor, barely missing the fallen Rick Flavelle.
"Here they come," Alfredo snarled.
Two prole-garbed fighters popped through the blasted en-tryway and
jumped immediately to each side, crouching. They carried automatic
shotguns, on the ready.
Alfredo swore, brought up his gun with his one arm, pulled the trigger,
widened his eyes at the weapon's failure to fire, pulled desperately
again. A shotgun blast tore his stomach away.
Rick threw his weapon aside, screaming, "I'm out of it. Don't shoot!
Give me a break!"
The first of the two approached him gingerly, covered by the second.
Grimed by dirt, eyes wide with excitement and exertion, he was a good-
looking young fellow in his late teens, looking more like a student than a
gunman. He kicked Rick's weapon even farther to one side and shot a
quick look at the bodies of Alfredo and Cliff.
He stared down at Rick and said, "Why didn't you dizzards give up? We
weren't after you. We want that plutocrat, Dunninger. You're just a
couple of working men, doing the best you can to make some kind of
decent living."
"Yeah, yeah," Rick panted. "That's it. Don't shoot."
The young gunman looked around at his companion. "Call for the medic,
and Ostrander."
The second one nodded and went back to the door and shouted, "It's
secure. There's only one left and he's wounded. Where's the doc?"
A newcomer entered the breached pillbox and looked about, making a
face at the carnage. He was middle-aged, and toted an old-fashioned
assault rifle under one arm.
He looked down at Rick and said, "Where's Dunninger? Don't make us
force you to tell."
Rick was losing most of his sudden panic but was still breathing deeply.
He got out, "Down in the bomb shelter. Over there; the trap door."
"He armed?"
A doctor entered, carrying a medical bag. He was older, gray of hair,
and obviously tired. Rick, undoubtedly, wasn't the only combat victim he
had treated in the past hour of action. He shot his eyes around,
dismissed the obviously dead pair, and came over to Rick.
Rick said, "Yeah, he's armed," to the one in command.
"That trap door locked from inside?"
"I don't know. I've never been down there."
The doctor said, "Shut up. Let me look at you," and knelt down next to
the fallen bodyguard.
But the commander said, "Is there any way of communicating with him
from up here?"
"That phone over there, hung on the wall."
"Shut up," the doctor repeated, fishing in his bag.
The commander went over to the phone, examined it briefly, put it to
his mouth and ear, and activated a stud on its side.
He said, "Dunninger? You might as well come on out of there, or we'll
have to blow you out and that might wind up plastering you around the
walls… No, we won't kill you. Not yet. Not if your family ponies up the
ransom… Don't be a dizzard, Dunninger. Of course we can get you out
of there. We're here in the pillbox, aren't we? Stop trying to stall,
nobody's coming to your assistance. This house is too far away from any
other for the ruckus to have been heard, and we have a scrambler
blanketing all communications. So come on out of there before we
scrape you out."
He listened for a moment longer and then hung the phone back on the
wall. He looked at the steel trap door to the bomb shelter below.
Two more civilian-clad, armed men had crowded into the small
compartment. They looked down at the doctor working on Rick Flavelle,
who had passed out.
The doctor said, "Here, you two men carry this fellow out to the
chopper."
One of the newcomers grumbled, "Why not let him die? Chet is dead
and two of the other boys have copped one."
"Because we're not butchers. Now get this man to the aircraft."
While the two were carrying Rick out into the garden patio, the trap
door began cautiously to rise. The three remaining gunmen trained their
weapons on it. The commander reached down and grasped the steel
door and pulled it completely back. On the steel ladder below stood an
apprehensive man in his late middle years, white of face, lips trembling.
He was clad in swimming trunks.
"Come on, come on," the commander of the terrorists said. The other
climbed out fearfully and put his hands high over his head. He saw the
two bodies and winced. The commander jerked his head. "Come on, this
way."
Harold Dunninger said, doing his best to keep a tremor from his voice,
"Where are we going?"
"To a hideout until we collect the ransom. If we collect it."
"Oh, don't worry. Don't worry about that. You'll collect it. Don't
worry."
"We're not worrying—either way."
They passed through the garden, into the house, and down the hall
toward the front door. Everywhere were signs of the short battle that
had been waged so recently, including two bodies in uniforms similar to
those of Rick and Alfredo.
Outside, a copter had landed on the extensive lawn. The two gunmen
who had carried Rick out were hoisting him up into it. More armed men
in prole clothing were streaming from the house, two of them with
bandaged wounds. They were in high good humor, calling back and forth
to each other banteringly.
The commander said, "One of you boys go back and get some clothes
for this character. Cozzini, bandage his eyes. He's got a reputation as a
sharpy."
When all had embarked, the craft swept off the ground and reached
for altitude. The commander, seated next to the pilot, said evenly, "Get
out of here soonest. It won't be long before one of those damned
servants gets himself untied. Shouldn't be much more than an hour
before the IABI is after us."
"Right," the pilot said.
Still blindfolded, Harold Dunninger, now in better command of himself
and making an effort to control his trembling, was pushed down on a
hard seat in the copter. At least, thank God, Betty and the children
were now safely in Mexico.
And then the chilling thought came to him. He and Betty hadn't been
getting along these days—ever since she had found out about that
ridiculous little harem he'd been keeping down in the city. The group
sex thing. Betty was of the old school, had even insisted on marriage.
But now they had been planning divorce, and Betty would have the reins
of his fortune when it came to the ransom. What was to prevent her
from taking an uncompromising stand against the kidnappers, refusing
to meet their demands? On his death, she would inherit the whole
fortune, one of the largest on the continent. Damn!
Betty had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him for
what she called her betrayal. The bitch didn't realize that she'd lost
what appeal she had possessed as a young woman. Now, though pushing
sixty, he still had the sexual drives of a man in his thirties. Those
bimbos he kept were only for occasional orgies, nothing important. As
for the family, he loved the two boys and had grown used to Betty. He
hadn't wanted the divorce; was still arguing with her about it. But she
was adamant. Oh, God, Betty! Would she meet the kidnappers'
demands? After all, it was only money. There was always more,
endlessly more, where it came from.
The aircraft slid into a landing and again he was hauled, pushed, led
blindly this point to that. Now he was in some kind of a building,
perhaps a dwelling. Nor did his captors utilize an elevator. Instead, he
was marched up stairs, down a hall, then pushed into a room. A door
slammed behind him.
Harold Dunninger stood there a while, his eyes still bandaged but his
hands free. Finally, hesitantly, he reached up and tore the blindfold
away.
He was in a small bedroom. It could have been a servant's room in any
of his own houses. But no, not even his servants lived in quarters as
drab as these. Two chairs, a table, a dresser, a bed, an open door to a
small bath. On the bed lay some of his clothes, including shoes.
Whoever had snatched up the things had forgotten socks and
handkerchiefs. On the table was a plate of sandwiches which looked
less than appetizing and a half-liter plastic of beer. The furniture was
less than new, the rug on the floor well-worn. There was one window,
but what looked like tar paper had been taped over it on the outside so
that he couldn't have looked out without breaking the glass, and he
assumed that this would bring punishment.
For lack of anything else to do, he donned shirt, slacks, and shoes. They
hadn't even brought him underclothing. No Tri-Di set, not even a radio
or books. The pockets of his slacks were empty.
There came a gentle knock at the door and Harold Dunninger looked up,
apprehensive again. Before he could respond, a stranger entered.
None of the kidnappers he had thus far seen had looked like
desperadoes. They had been dressed as proles, but they hadn't been
vicious, in spite of the circumstances. But this one was different.
Among other things, he was only about twenty, and one had to look
twice to realize that he wasn't younger. He had what only could be
described as a hesitant face. Polite, well bred, fresh-faced, as though
he hadn't been shaving very long, and far from aggressive. His
expression was almost apologetic. He was well-dressed in sports
clothing and wouldn't have looked out of place with a tennis racket in
his hand.
He said, "Good afternoon, sir."
Harold Dunninger stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"
The other flushed. "My name's Thomas Spaulding, sir." He stood there
almost like a waiter or a butler at attention.
Dunninger continued to eye him. He said finally, "Well, what do you
want?"
"I've come to… to be with you, sir. Do you mind if I sit down?"
"It's your jail," the older man snapped, somehow feeling relief at this
development, somehow gaining courage from the appearance of this
inoffensive youngster. He himself took one of the chairs at the table.
"I'll do what I can to make you as comfortable as possible under the
circumstances."
The tycoon snorted in disgust. "Comfortable! Under these conditions?
What could you do to make me comfortable?"
"Anything within reason—something to read, something to eat besides
those sandwiches? Perhaps, something to drink beyond the beer there?
Writing materials? Or would you just like to talk?"
"Talk about what, goddamn it?"
"Anything you like, sir. I'm here to keep you company."
"Thanks," Dunninger said, even able by now to mount sarcasm.
Thomas Spaulding looked anxious and cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd
like a Bible. Or would you prefer a United Church brother to talk to?"
"Those ignorant bigots? There's never been such a corrupt, stupid
religious movement in the history of the race. I'm a Catholic, boy!"
"Yes, sir. I remember now. Would you like a priest?"
The cold went through Harold Dunninger and his face went slack. After
a long moment he said, "What do you mean, would I like a priest?"
Young Spaulding said, "I am not superstitious myself, sir, but I have no
prejudice against those who are. I thought… I thought it was the
custom of your faith to make peace with your God before…" He let the
sentence dribble away.
The older man stared at him, cold fingers walking down his spine.
Finally, he got out, "You're going to shoot me. That leader of yours,
that one who talked me out of the bomb shelter. He said you wouldn't
kill me."
"Comrade Ostrander knew you wouldn't be killed if the ransom was
paid. But I doubt if he promised anything more. You have twenty-four
hours, sir. If the fifty million pseudo-dollars is not forthcoming by that
time, I am afraid that… that your life is forfeit.''
"Fifty… million… pseudo-dollars."
"Yes, sir. Comrade Ostrander has already made the initial contact. The
ransom is to be paid into a special numbered account in Tangier. And
there must be guarantees that no attempt will be made to prosecute
anyone. If such attempts are made, you will be, uh, eliminated."
Harold Dunninger slumped back in his chair, his eyes wide. Betty would
never permit such a sum to escape her hands. Yes, it was available. But
she would never… not Betty. In spite of the fact that she had been bom
into luxury, and certainly had lived in luxury, Betty was a compulsive
pennypincher. She made a point of prowling the kitchen, enraged if the
servants opened a bottle of wine for themselves. The allowance she
doled out to the boys was a farce. Harold Dunninger augmented it
secretly each week. Her pennypinching was proverbial. Fifty million
pseudo-dollars? No. Never from Betty, even in the best of times.
Harold Dunninger said shakily, "I'll take that drink."
"Yes, sir." Young Spaulding got up and went to the door, opened it, and
stuck his head out, obviously speaking to a guard stationed in the hall.
Dunninger's mind raced. Or tried to. He had to get out of here
somehow, within twenty-four hours. Was this kid armed? If so, was
there any way to take his gun, and get through the guard which they
obviously would have posted? He closed his eyes and groaned. Harold
Dunninger was no muscle-bound hero. He'd let himself go to pot over
the years. He'd never been much for sports, even as a youngster. And
even if he was able to overwhelm Spaulding, there would be more of
them beyond, downstairs—Men trained and experienced with guns,
while he hardly knew enough to fire one. He closed his eyes in sick
dismay, his stomach beginning to roil.
Tom Spaulding returned with a squat bottle and a glass and put them on
the table before the captive.
Dunninger shakily took off the bottle's cap and poured. It was a bottle
of his own prehistoric whiskey. It would seem that his kidnappers
weren't above looting. He knocked back the spirits with a quick motion.
He had to make some sort of plans.
The young man had seated himself again and was looking in compassion
at the captive.
Dunninger said, "Are you supposed to be seeing that I make no plans for
escape?"
The other seemed embarrassed. "Well, no, sir. It was my idea. It goes
back to the old British and French army days of the late 18th century.
All officers were gentlemen; they came from good families—
aristocrats. If one was to be shot in the morning, a fellow officer was
assigned to stay with him in his cell and, well, be with him. Take
messages to his family or sweetheart, help him make out his will, if
necessary. Talk with him. Possibly read the Bible with him. That sort of
thing. Just, well, keep him company."
Dunninger eyed him, even as he poured another stiff drink. "Why'd
they pick you?"
The boy looked embarrassed again. "I suppose it's because I know you,
sir. We come from the same background. My father was a close friend
of yours."
The older man was staring now. "You're Pete Spaulding's boy? Why, I
remember you now. Tommy Spaulding. I haven't seen you since you were
about ten or eleven. A thin little fellow, always nervous."
"Yes, sir. I remember you, too, Mr. Dunninger. Very clearly."
"Look, call me Harold," the other said. His voice had an edge of
excitement now. "Look, Tommy, I've got to get out of here. My wife'll
never pay that ransom—never in a million years. We've got to figure
some way of getting me out of here."
The young man blinked and shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid that's
impossible."
"But look, these people are killers. They're kidnappers. Mad dogs must
be shot down on sight."
Tom Spaulding was still shaking his head in rejection. "No, sir, they're
idealists. Don't you know whose hands you're in? We're the Nihilists."
"We?"
"Yes, sir. You must realize, we don't have anything against you as an
individual. We're opposed to the socioeconomic system you represent.
We are going to change it."
The tycoon closed his eyes once more and tried to wrench his mind into
thought. He opened them again and said desperately, "See here, boy.
That sum your Comrade Ostrander demanded is ridiculous."
"Yes, sir. It was purposely made so, to attract attention to your case."
"It'll never be paid. But I'll tell you, Tommy, on my word of honor, that
if you can get me out of here, I'll give you five million pseudo-dollars,
all tax-free. All deposited to your account, no questions asked, say, in
Switzerland or Nassau. My word of honor."
"Sir," the other said sadly, "you don't understand. Even if I did need
the money—and I don't—it wouldn't interest me. I'm a devoted
member of the Nihilists, and though I'm sorry that you are in this
position, I'm dedicated to ending this social system. I'm willing to
participate in the liquidating of others, if required to accomplish our
ends."
Dunninger glowered at him. "You're completely around the bend. You're
crazy."
"I don't think so, sir. The world's in need of change. The overwhelming
majority of the race is living in misery and degradation."
The tycoon said impatiently, "What the hell do you think you'd replace
our system with?"
"We differ on that question. You see, Nihilists don't ever expect to
come to power ourselves. We're basically anti-organization, if you can
comprehend that. We're against the status quo, but we don't offer a
definitive alternative system. We believe production should be
democratically owned and we believe in world government, but not of
the present systems."
Dunninger groaned in the face of what he thought sheer madness. "But
what do you think you're doing? You assassinate people, especially rich
or powerful people. You commit arson and sabotage. What's that got to
do with reforms? You're nothing but terrorists."
"No, sir. Our basic goal is to spur the people into alterna-lives to
capitalism and communism. Most people never consider the possibility
of a basic change in their own system. The system tells them that what
prevails has always been and will always be. They fail to realize that
nothing changes as steadily as social systems."
Dunninger was in despair. "You'd prefer what they've got in the Soviet
Complex?"
"We're against them both. In the West, production means are owned
by a few private individuals. In the East, it is in the hands of the State.
To the rank-and-file citizen, it makes comparatively little difference.
In short, we're trying to goose the world's population into thinking
about change."
"So you're actually willing to murder me, to gain what you think are
desirable ends."
"Yes, sir, we are," the boy said simply.
"It's not fair; I've never killed anybody in my life!"
The boy looked at him and took a deep, unhappy breath. "Haven't you?
Maybe you never pulled a trigger, but the blood on the hands of your
social system is unbelievable. Millions have died due to pollution and
disease brought about by your rampaging industry. Millions have died
from poisonous foods and drugs that were continued because they
made a profit. Why has cancer erupted geometrically over the last
century and a half? Mr. Dunninger, you don't even know how many
deaths you've caused."
Dunninger tipped up the whiskey bottle once again. The boy was a wild-
eyed unthinking fanatic. Given time, he might have been able to get
through to him, convince him how wrong he was, how misguided. But he,
Harold Dunninger, didn't have time. He had less than twenty-four hours
now.
Harold Dunninger upended the bottle, killing it.
"Can you get me another one of these?" he slurred.
Chapter Thirteen: Roy Cos
Roy's secretary Mary Ann, publicity man Jet Peters, and writer Ferd
Feldmeyer sat in a row on a couch before the Tri-Di screen in the
luxurious winter villa of some absent northerner. The variable-image
Tri-Di screen was set into the wall of the living room. At the moment, it
was just large enough so that the people on lens were life-size. There
were some uncanny attributes. Though the trio had been exposed to
Tri-Di projections all their lives, the illusion was as though they could
have spoken back and forth with Roy Cos and the others being shown.
The face of a well-known commentator was smiling as though earnest,
sincere, and oh-so-friendly.
Mary Ann frowned, her plain face impatient. She said, "You've got the
wrong station, Ferd. That's Ken Butterworth. I listen to his
commentaries every day."
Jet Peters swigged at his highball. Sitting around waiting for the
broadcast, he'd already had enough to still the characteristic tremor
of his hands. He said, "Ken is Roy's announcer. Forry ponied up fifty
thousand to get him for just a few minutes. Nothing but the best for
Roy Cos. That Brit shyster in Nassau will be sweating thirty-eight
caliber turdlets at the rate Forry goes through that million pseudo-
dollars a day. Christ only knows what we're paying for fifteen minutes
of prime time on an international hookup."
The life-size figure seated behind the desk said, "Folks, this is Ken
Butterworth, yours truly. Tonight, I have a surprise for you. If you
follow the news at all, you know that Roy Cos has gained instant fame as
the Deathwish Wobbly. Roy Cos, a dedicated idealist, is risking his
life—perhaps sacrificing it—to bring you the message of the Industrial
Workers of the World—the Wobblies. Mr. Cos is unsusal for a man with
a message. He doesn't insist that you subscribe to his admittedly
radical view—only that he be granted the opportunity to say it and allow
you to make your own decisions.
"Roy Cos's life has been insured for an unbelievable sum. So long as he
lives, he has a very large credit line. Unlike others who sign Deathwish
Policies, Roy Cos is devoting his credits to spreading his message. His
life expectancy might be measured in hours. But tonight he will bring
you his program of basic changes to our social system. He plans further
broad casts…"the news commentator paused dramatically "… if he
survives. Folks, I present Mr. Roy Cos, the Deathwish Wobbly."
Ken Butterworth faded out and Roy came on lens, sitting at i similar
desk. Flanking him and behind stood Billy Tucker and Ron Ellison, their
faces alert, their eyes periodically roaming.
Ferd's plump mouth seemed to pout. "What the hell are they doing
there?" he said.
Jet Peters laughed. "One of Forry's ideas to emphasize Roy's continual
danger. They're in a little studio in one of the smaller Tri-Di stations
about fifty miles from here. I don't know where. There's not a chance
that anybody knows where they are, and even if they did, they couldn't
get into that studio. But it looks authentic. Roy is being guarded every
minute."
Mary Ann said, even as Roy started his talk. "He looks awful. His face is
too pale."
"Too heavy, too," Ferd said. "Put some of the cosmetic boys to work on
him, Mary Ann. He needs to cut a sympathetic figure. Kind of romantic."
Roy was reading his speech somewhat stiffly. He'd never appeared on
the airwaves before. The three watching had heard the speech a dozen
times before and had all had a hand in its final polishing, so they didn't
bother to listen too closely.
Jet said, "He needs coaching. Forry ought to hire a couple of actors to
give him some pointers." He looked at Ferd. "Where do we meet the
rest of them after the broadcast?"
"Search me," Ferd said. He looked at Mary Ann.
Mary Ann said, "No. That's why I had you pack, ready to go. We're to
meet Roy and the others at a prearranged street corner, ditch our car
there, and then go on. I don't know where."
"I hope the hell we don't get separated from them," the publicity man
growled.
Ferd took a sip from his glass of beer. "Well, from now on, the credits
start accumulating," he said in his fat man's voice. "Now we come out
from cover and start spending that money. Do you realize we've already
made seventy thousand apiece? We've been on the payroll a week and
Forty hasn't allowed him to use his credit card at all. Man, when he
does—it'll all hit the fan at once."
The secretary put her elbows tight against her sides in feminine
rejection. "Don't talk about the money we're making," she said. "It
sounds ghoulish."
Jet said to her, "Where are we going to meet them?"
"On a street corner."
He scowled impatiently. "What street corner?"
She was embarrassed. "Forry told me not to tell anyone."
The publicity man didn't get it and said, "You mean he doesn't even
trust us?"
"Oh, don't be a cloddy, Jet. It's not just us. He didn't tell anybody
where we were to rendezvous, except me. Only one of us needs to know.
The fewer people who know, the less chance there is for an accidental
leak."
Roy Cos finished his talk and Forry Brown took over, seated in Ken
Butterworth's place, lending him a spurious celebrity. The scrawny
little newsman was more at home on lens than Roy. He said, squinting his
faded gray eyes, "Thanks to all you people for listening. As Ken
Butterworth said, Roy will have more to say—if he survives. It's
rumored that the contract for his death—his murder—is in the hands
of the legendary Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, of Mercenaries,
Incorporated. In short, it's just a matter of time now. Roy Cos and his
staff are on the run. But I'm going to let you listeners in on something:
we are not going to give advance notice of Roy's broadcasts. Instead,
we're going to spring them at just about any time, any place. You might
even keep your video recorders taping. Tomorrow or the next day, just
by chance, you might come onto another Wobbly broadcast. If and
when you do, phone three of your friends who might be interested, and
tell them that the Deathwish Wobbly is again hurrying through one of
his talks before the Grafs killers can catch up to him." A one-beat
pause before Forry delivered his clincher: "They just might catch him
while he's on camera."
Jet came to his feet and said, "I'll finish packing my bags. Got some
things I've got to cram into them." He left the room.
Mary Ann looked after him thoughtfully.
Forry, on the Tri-Di screen, was continuing. "We applied to the Inter-
American Bureau of Investigation for protection and were ignored. The
only guards Roy has are four friends, fellow Wobblies. They are
unarmed. They applied for permits to carry weapons but were denied. I
suggest that any listener who is indignant over this get in touch with
his congressman and senator. Demand that Roy's guards be allowed
weapons! The Grafs gunmen will be armed to the teeth. Of course, most
of you do not yet support the Wobbly cause. I, Roy Cos's manager, am
not a Wobbly. But we all subscribe to the American tradition of fair
play. We all believe that this dedicated man must be heard, before his
inevitable fate overtakes him. Good night, fellow members of the human
race. If you see us again, all of us will have been very, very lucky"
The screen faded.
Suddenly, Mary Ann was on her feet, hurrying from the room. She went
down the hall to Jet Peter's bedroom. It was closed but there was no
lock.
She pushed through and entered briskly.
The publicity man was standing in the middle of the room, a pocket
transceiver held to his mouth. His habitually bleary eyes widened, and
for the briefest of split seconds it looked as though he was going to
hide what he was doing. But that was nonsense.
Her eyes accused him silently.
He looked at her. "One of my publicity outlets. I thought of one last
thing I could plant in a…"
Mary Ann said crisply, "No. All evening long you've been trying to find
out where Roy is—where we were to meet and where we were going.''
"Don't be a mopsy," he said contemptuously, deactivating the
transceiver and returning it to a side pocket.
"I want to know to whom you were talking."
"None of your goddam business."
"I want to know, too," a voice said from behind her. Ferd Feldmeyer
stepped into the room.
Mary Ann said to him, "I passed his room earlier and saw his bags there
on the floor. He was already packed. His excuse for leaving while we
were still listening to the broadcast wasn't valid. And now I caught him
phoning somebody."
Ferd looked at the publicity man wearily. "What the hell's the matter,
Jet? Wasn't ten thousand a day enough to keep you honest?"
Jet Peters stared at him. "Ten thousand a day? Don't be silly. He won't
last the next twenty-four hours—especially after that broadcast
roasting the contracting corporation and the Graf. You two ought to
come in with me. I was offered a quarter of a million pseudo-dollars,
tax free, just for fingering him. They'll boost that now, if all three of
us cooperate."
"What some assholes will do for money," Feldmeyer said, shaking his
head. "I always thought you were a square guy in a sloppy sort of way,
Peters. You and Forty and I have known each other for a long time. You
shouldn't have sold Forry out. You undoubtedly contacted the Graf's
people on your own. They wouldn't have known how to get in touch with
you, or even that you were working for Roy."
The other said in a quick rage, "Poor Cos is going to get it anyway! What
difference does a few days make? We'll collect our ten thousand a day
as long as he lasts and then, when they get to him, we'll get a bonus of
maybe another half million from the Graf when they burn him. The Graf
never reneges on a deal."
"No," Mary Ann said bitterly. "And neither do I, you cynical gob of
snot."
Ferd Feldmeyer held out a hand. "No more reports, Peters. Give me
your transceiver."
"Get screwed, you fat jerk."
Ferd's eyebrows went up in his lardy face. "Peters, I'm twice your
weight and ten years younger. Do you really wanta try me?"
Jet glared but finally dipped a hand into his side pocket and brought
forth the communications device. The speechwriter took it, dropped it
to the floor, and ground it under his heel. "You stupid, greedy bastard,"
he said. "You not only don't get the seventy thousand pseudo-dollars,
but you won't get anything from the Graf's outfit, either." He turned
to Mary Ann. "Let's go. We don't want to keep them waiting."
Carrying their bags, Mary Ann and Ferd piled into the car parked in the
driveway. In actuality, it was Jet Peters's vehicle, which bothered
them not at all. Mary Ann drove.
Under way, Ferd Feldmeyer growled, "The idiot. Didn't it ever occur to
him that when the Graf's boys finally polished off Roy, some of us
might go, too? They might just toss a grenade, getting us all. Then the
Graf wouldn't have to renege on the quarter of a million he promised
Jet. There wouldn't be any Jet to pay off."
Mary Ann said, "Well, at least we learned one thing."
He looked over at her, still disgusted at the defection of his friend.
"What?"
"It's definite that it's the Graf's contract."
"A hell of a lot of good that does us," he said. "The Graf's men are far
and away the most efficient in their rotten business."
The corner where they were scheduled to rendezvous wasn't far. The
small Tri-Di station couldn't have been many miles away. Forry wasn't
telling anything he could withhold.
Mary Ann parked, and within three minutes another car pulled up
alongside them. Les Bates was at the wheel, Forry beside him. The rest
were in the back.
Forry called over, "Hurry it up. Let's get out of here."
Mary Ann and Ferd brought their luggage over and stuffed it into the
large compartment of the limousine. Ferd crowded into the front with
Forry and Les; Mary Ann got into the back with Roy and the three
other guards, taking a jump seat.
Roy said, "Where the devil's Jet?"
Ferd answered wearily, "He sold out to the Graf. Mary Ann caught him
reporting. Evidently, he'd promised to finger you."
Les took off, accelerating rapidly.
"Damn," Forry said angrily. "I didn't expect any of the team to get the
gimmes this soon."
They rode in silence for a moment.
Les said to Forry, "Where are we going?"
And Forry said, "I don't know."
They all looked at him blankly.
He said impatiently, "Don't you get it? None of us knows where we're
going now. So at least we're sure that the Graf's gang won't be there
waiting for us. Anybody have any ideas? One thing, from now on we have
to be more out in the open. We've got to have as much security as
possible, but with Roy available to the media. He's got to give
interviews, issue statements, keep in the public eye. We can buy media
time, but that doesn't mean that we can ignore free publicity. So, any
ideas?"
For a time, as they sped across the country, all were blank.
Billy Tucker said hesitantly, "I was thinking in terms of getting a couple
of mobile homes and keeping on the move. Just turning up from time to
time for broadcasts."
Roy objected, "Then we'd be hiding from the news people as well as the
Graf and we'd miss all that free publicity Forry's talking about."
"And that's going to get your message across even faster than your
own talks," Mary Ann said.
Dick Samuelson said, "I hope the organization is grinding out our
pamphlets fast enough to meet the demand."
"They won't have to," Forry said. "But never fear, profit-making
publishers will get into the act. If there's a market, before the next
week is out, you'll see more material on the Wobbly program than you
ever suspected could exist. But to get back to it. Where do we go?"
Ron Ellison said hesitantly, "I know a big hotel in Miami where they've
got a king-size penthouse.
"I worked there once," Ron told him. "I know the place. It wouldn't
take much to secure it. There's only one private elevator, with a steel
door. And there's another steel door at the only stairway. The place
was originally built with the idea of attracting South American
politicians who'd taken off with their country's treasure, or Syndicate
men, or maybe Tri-Di stars who wanted to get away from their fans."
Forry said sourly, "There are quite a few places in southern Florida of
that type. Anything special about this one?"
"Well, yes," Ron said. "When I was working there, there were three or
four other Wobblies besides me. Hotels are automated to hell and
gone, these days, but you've always got to have some staff."
"I get it," Roy said. "Having our own people planted in the hotel means
that much more security. They might be able to spot something offbeat
and report it to you."
"That's right," Ron said nodding. "You'd be surprised how fast gossip
goes through a big hotel. Suppose one of the Graf's men turned up
claiming to be from the phone company and wanting to get into the
penthouse for repairs. The hotel electrician, a chum-pal of mine named
Larry, would spot him in a minute. Either that or he'd tag along with
him, just to be sure, as long as he was in the hotel."
"I'm sold," Forry said. "Ron, get on your transceiver and find out if that
penthouse is available. If so, rent it in your name. Don't mention
anything about Roy or me. Say you'll pay in advance daily but don't let
on that you have endless funds. Say you're coming in tonight."
While Ron was making arrangements, Forry said to Roy, "If I know this
type of hotel penthouse arrangement, there'll be a private entrance,
probably at the rear of the hotel. Ron will know. We'll go in that way.
You and I will have scarves around our heads, on the off chance that
somebody who saw the broadcast might spot us. We want to be
organized in that place before our coming-out party to the news
syndicates."
"Right," Roy said. He took a deep breath. "How long do you think I'll
last, Forry?"
The other took time to light a smoke before answering. He said, trying
to keep feeling from his voice, "I don't know. Probably longer than
anybody thinks. There are some aspects of this one that the Grafs
boys haven't run into before. In the past, the suckers who signed the
Deathwish Policies to have their fun and spend their credits did it in
public—nightclubs, restaurants, bars, shops, theatres. They were
sitting ducks. We're going to present them with a whole new set of
problems."
They pulled up before the looming beachside resort hotel an hour later
and were met at the private entrance by the manager. Monsieur Pierre
Boucherer was a product of the best Swiss hotel management school,
therefore, a whiz at fawning.
He fawned. He welcomed their party of eight with pure enthusiasm. He
saw nothing untoward in the heads of two men swathed in scarves. He
saw nothing untoward in the party insisting on taking up their own
luggage to their extrav-agantly expensive skytop rental. He would have
seen nothing untoward if they'd all had live coral snakes for neckties.
He alone accompanied them to the penthouse.
It took two trips in view of their number, the amount of luggage, and
the fact that the elevator was only medium-size. But at last, all of them
were gathered in the spacious living room.
"Jesus," Billy Tucker said, looking around, taking it all in. He had
obviously never been in a luxury hotel apartment.
Monsieur Boucherer fawned, even as he rubbed his gloved hands
together. "And now, how may I serve you?"
Forry, still masked like a Moslem virgin, looked over at the bar. He then
sent his eyes around to his companions. "What's your favorite guzzle?"
he said.
They looked at him in mild surprise for a moment, but then: "Medium
dry sherry," Mary Ann said.
"Whiskey," said Roy, who was also still swathed, but then, "No. Make
that Scotch."
"Yeah, Scotch," Ron said.
"Bourbon," Dick said. "Real hundred-proof sour mash."
"Me, too," Bill said.
"I'm a beer man—but none of this synthetic stuff," Les said.
"Brandy," Ferd said, running a small tongue over his fat lips. "French
cognac."
"Cognac for me, too," Forry said. And then, to the manager, "Send up
two cases each of sherry, Scotch, bourbon, and cognac, and ten cases
of Pilsner Urquell. All of the best quality the hotel cellars provide."
The manager gaped at him blankly. He said, "But sir, the bar is
automated, either for individual drinks or by the bottle…"
"Send up the cases," Forry said. "This penthouse has a kitchen, of
course, and a large pantry, deep-freeze and all?"
"Of course, sir."
"I want it completely stocked within a couple of hours, from your
stocks on hand, with enough food to last us a month or more. The very
best, mind you."
Monsieur Boucherer was too taken aback to remember his fawning. He
opened his mouth to protest, to declare the abilities of the hotel's
chefs, but then closed it again. "Yes, sir," he fawned. "And what else?"
Forry said, "This room is going to be converted into, uh, something of
an office. We'll want a half dozen desks and the standard equipment to
go with them—TV phones, voco-typers, library boosters for the
National Data Banks. All of this should be up here in the next couple of
hours."
The manager blinked. "Yes, sir."
Forry pressed on. "I understand that there's a stairway, steel-doored
at both ends, leading up here. I want the door at the other end kept
closed and two hotel security men posted at it twenty-four hours a day.
They are to pass no one."
That, evidently, was not an unknown desire on the part of guests
registered in the penthouse. Monsieur Boucherer was able to make with
a fawn again. "Certainly, sir."
"Two guards are to be stationed at the elevator as well, twenty-four
hours a day. No one outside this party is to be allowed to pass without
my okay. My name is Brown."
"Very good, Mr. Brown."
"For the moment that's all. I'll see you in the morning about the credit
transfer to cover all this. It will be on a Swiss International Numbered
Account."
"Of course, sir."
When the manager was gone, the little ex-newsman sighed and
unwrapped his scarf; Roy Cos did the same. Forry sent Ron and Dick to
double check the doors. Les Bates made a beeline for the bar, calling
over his shoulder for orders.
The others slumped into seats, all suddenly weary.
Roy said, "What's the idea of ordering all that guzzle?"
"And all the food, for that matter?" Mary Ann nodded.
Forry said, "Anything we order tonight is probably safe. It's
unbelievable that the bogeymen know we're here. But after tomorrow
morning, when we let it out where we are, nobody in this team is to
drink or eat anything that doesn't come from our private stock. Don't
dial for drinks on the autobar, don't have any food sent up from the
kitchens. From now on, we're poison-conscious. Also conscious of the
fact that a bottle can be gimmicked with explosives. Take off the cap
and wham."
"Yeah," Roy said in resignation. "From now on, we've got to assume that
anything that could possibly kill us, will."
Mary Ann glanced over at him, her eyes sad, but she said nothing.
Roy glanced at his diminutive manager. "What was that about you asking
the IABI for protection? And about the guns? I didn't know you'd
requested gun permits for the boys."
"I haven't," Forry told him. "But it sounded good over the air. Bring
home to the viewers the toughness of the spot you're in. At that stage,
it was just as well the IABI didn't know where we were, even if they
did want to guard us. They're undoubtedly infiltrated by the Graf's
organization, and we'd have put ourselves on the spot. And asking for
gun permits for them would have revealed the fact that Ron, Billy, Les,
and Rick were lined up with you and that might have led to tracking us
down. If the IABI denied we'd asked for protection, nobody would
believe them."
"You're quite a Machiavelli, Forry," Ferd wheezed.
Les had served them drinks and they settled back in satisfaction. They
all felt the tensions of the past few days.
Forry said, taking out the last pack of cigarettes he had bought in
Nassau, "I hope that soapy manager can come up with tobacco as well.
I'll have to order that, too, before the night is out. That's all I'd need,
some doped cigarettes."
He looked over at Ron. "You know this place better than any of the rest
of us. Go around and decide what rooms each of us should have. Give
Roy the most strategically located one—you know, the one that's
furthest from both of the elevator and staircase."
Dick stood and walked over to the French windows that opened onto
the hotel's roof. There was an extensive garden, largely of potted
plants, a swimming pool, a sun deck, tables, and folding chairs. He said,
"What's to prevent a chopper from settling down out there with a few
of the Grafs lads in it?"
"Nothing," Forry growled. "We're going to have to post a full-time
guard outside."
Dick turned and looked at him. "There's only four of us."
Forry nodded. "I know." He looked at Roy Cos. "We're going to need
another four of your Wobblies. Have you got four more like Ron, Les,
Dick, and Billy?"
The Wobbly national organizer sighed. "There aren't as many of us as
all that, you know, and we're not all young, unattached, strongarm
types. And probably a lot of the membership don't even agree with
what I'm doing."
"All right," Forry said sourly. "But we need at least four more guards,
preferably familiar with guns."
"Guns? What guns?" Dick said bitterly. "Just one of the Graf's pros
with a shooter could blow the asses off us all."
Forry looked at him. "By tomorrow we'll have guns. You can buy anything
in this country if you have enough credit, and as of tomorrow, we'll be
openly spending Roy's million a day. As an old-time crime reporter, I
have a few contacts. Gyrojets all right?"
"Yes," Dick said, happier now. "Both handguns and assault rifles."
Roy said, "I'll get together with the boys and we'll try and pick four
more guards." He turned to Mary Ann and Ferd and said, "How'd the
broadcast go over?"
Mary Ann said, "Well, good and bad." She glanced over at Forry. "For
one thing, his presentation isn't too good. His appearance is, well, poor.
A hero can't be pale and dumpy."
Forry ran his eyes over the Wobbly organizer, who was grimacing, and
nodded. "I should've thought of that. There're injections these days
that can darken his complexion, or we could use a sunlamp. And we can
have him massaged and dieted down to the point where he doesn't look
so lardy."
"Hey," Roy said in protest.
They ignored him.
"There's another thing," Ferd Feldmeyer said. "That first speech was
good enough, perhaps. It summed up the Wobbly program. But we can't
just repeat it over and over again. We've got to have fresh material."
"Like what?" Dick asked, in rejection. "I thought it was swell. Gave the
movement's stand exactly. That's the point of the whole thing."
The speechwriter shook his head. "You can't just keep hitting the
viewers over the head with a flat statement of what you want. You've
got to come up with new, exciting stuff; something to keep them
coming, wanting to listen in to future programs."
Ron said, "But we've got nothing else to say."
Ferd took another pull at his cognac. "Then we've gotta find some
exciting details. Almost anything that's a current issue, something they
aren't doing right under this so-called welfare state.
"Take VD—various drugs have been developed up over the years to
combat venereal diseases. First the sulfas. They were tremendously
effective when first discovered, but in a few years, new strains of
gonoccocci had developed that were immune to sulfa. Then the
antibiotics like streptomycin came along, but the germs adapted to
them and eventually thrived. Well, suppose we put our scientists to
work on a whole series of new antibiotics. Then, on D-Day, everybody in
the country would take the new antibiotic, whether or not they had
ever had any venereal disease. Every man, woman, and child, including
the president and Roman Catholic cardinals. Later, one of the other new
antibiotics would be given everybody, to nail the germs missed that
first time. And from then on, nobody would be allowed into the United
States of the Americas until they'd had their antibiotics. This is a
half-assed description of an idea some researcher wrote, and I may
have some of it wrong. But I know smallpox was eradicated. I bet
VDcowWbe."
"Great," Roy said, "but it has nothing to do with fundamental social
change. It could be done under any system."
"But the thing is," Ferd said patiently, "to get to the people, you've got
to participate, take a strong stand on everything from pollution and
depletion of natural resources to ending war, women's rights, race
problems, and all the rest. Your stand should sound more sensible than
anybody else's, or else more Godly. And you've got to sound off about
it, louder and more insistently than anybody else. If you're ever going
to get a following, that'll be how."
The identity screen on the door buzzed. Ron and Billy popped to their
feet.
"That'll be the first load of food and guzzle," Forry said. "You boys
supervise it. Roy and I'll go into our rooms so that nobody'll recognize
us."
"I'm going to bed anyway," Roy said. "I'm bushed to hell and gone and
I've got a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow'll be a busy day." He
paused and added in deprecation, "I've got a suspicion that the rest of
my life is going to be a busy day."
It was a half-hour later that a knock came at Roy Cos's bedroom door.
He was lying on his back in bed in his pajamas, hands under his head,
staring at the ceiling. Beside him, on the night table, was a drink he had
brought from the living room. It was untouched.
He looked at the door and said, "Come on in."
Mary Ann was clad in a simple white nightgown and sturdy bedroom
slippers. She carried a half-empty bottle of Scotch. Her hair had been
combed out and her face glowed as if freshly washed—or freshly made
up.
Roy said, his tired hazel eyes puzzled, "Hello, Mary Ann. Something
up?" He came to one elbow.
"That should be my question," she smiled, and closed the door behind
her. Her face had a flush which, Roy decided to his surprise, brought a
wistful beauty to her ordinary plainness. Mary Ann Elwyn would never
be thought of as a pretty girl but her femininity was there, now that
she had discarded her brisk office efficiency.
She brought her eyes up and to his and the flush deepened. "I thought
you might be lonesome," she said, her voice low.
Roy stared at her. Plain, Mary Ann might be, but even the dreary
nightclothes she wore couldn't disguise the healthy womanly body. Her
breasts were high, her waist taut, her legs surprisingly long. Roy hadn't
noticed those legs before. It seldom occurred to men to scrutinize the
Mary Ann equipment.
For a moment, he couldn't remember when last he had bedded a woman.
It had probably been one of the Wobbly members.
Roy said, after running a hand through his faded brown hair, "Sit down,
Mary Ann."
She sat on the edge of the bed and again avoided his eyes.
He said, "Look, there's obviously no future in me. If we happen to get
caught up emotionally—well, I won't be able to feel grief.''
She didn't say anything to that.
He said, an edge in his voice, "I don't want charity, Mary Ann."
She looked up at him. "Then you're a fool. I do, Roy. I'm lonesome, too."
He said quickly, "I'm not exactly the romantic type. I know what I look
like, what I am. Those four boys guarding me are more nearly your own
age. And they're all good, healthy…"
"Oh, shut up," she said. She threw back the bedclothes and squirmed
herself in beside him, after tossing her bathrobe to the foot of the
bed and kicking off her slippers. "I'm not interested in boys. I'm
interested in a loving man." She flicked off the night table light. "And
you're the most loving man I've ever met, Roy Cos."
Chapter Fourteen: Frank Pinell
Frank and Nat Fraser got off the metro at the Odeon Station and
started up the street. As in practically all large cities these days,
vehicular traffic in Paris was at a minimum though pedestrians and
bicycles occupied the streets even at this time of night in Left Bank,
still the home of artists and Sorbonne students.
Nat Fraser looked over at his younger companion approvingly. He said,
"Cobber, you look like a regular toff in those new duds. A little on the
Frenchy side, gawdstrewth."
Frank snorted at the tall, gawky Australian. "They ought to look good,
you ponied up enough credits to outfit me."
"Nothing's too good for a cove working for the bloody Graf." Nat
looked up at a street sign. "Rue Monsieur Le Prince," he read. "That's
it."
Frank said, "Who's this Colonel Boris Rivas?"
"Old-time mercenary. Mostly Africa and Near East. Last time I saw him
was in Yemen. He had a contract there with some fifty commandos and
a few hundred ragheads. Too bloody-minded by far for my liking,
cobber. I was done on the bone but I did a bunk instead of joining up."
Frank frowned. "Now I really need a translation."
"I don't go for finishing off women, kids, and old folks. Fair dinkum, I
don't. Rape, killing civilians, looting—old Boris gets his lollies out of it.
Bad business. If the situation pickles, you might have to depend on
those women and old coves. Hide you, feed you, if they're lucky enough
as to have anything to eat. Maybe nurse you, if you've copped one."
He looked up at a sign over the doorway of a dilapidated building that
looked a good two centuries or more in age. Hotel Balcon.
"This is it, cobber. Just follow me bloody lead. Rivas is competition to
the Graf. This is his last bloody chance. He comes in with the mucking
organization, or the barstid's had it, and that's the dinkum oil."
"You mean we, uh, shoot him?"
The other grinned cheerfully. "More likely he'd shoot us first, cobber.
But we're here under a bloody flag of bloody truce. Let's go."
The hotel lobby was no more impressive than the outside of the
building. It had the odor of long decay. Its lone occupant was a bent old
man behind the desk, obviously the concierge.
"What room's Rivas in, cobber?" the Aussie said.
To Frank's surprise, the old man spoke English. "Top floor. Room 505."
"Too right," Nat said, and made a gesture with his head. "Get your arse
out of here." The old-timer studied the set of Nat's jaw, then scooted
out a door behind his desk.
Frank looked at him in surprise.
"He's been paid," Nat said, heading for the stairway. There was no
elevator.
The building was five stories high and Nat Fraser had obviously been in
third-class French hotels before. At each landing he pushed a button in
the wall which turned on a low wattage bulb just long enough for them
to reach the next landing. The management of the Hotel Balcon did not
waste electrical power.
On the fifth floor, the pressing of the light button gave them just
enough time to find room 505. Nat Fraser knocked on the door and the
hall light flicked off before the portal opened.
A huge black was there, almost as tall as the Australian and, if
anything, broader of shoulder, deeper of chest. He was the blackest
man Frank Pinell had ever seen—actually ebony in complexion—yet his
face was more nearly European than Bantu. He was a beautiful physical
specimen and his movements belied his size; he moved like a black
leopard.
Nat said, "The colonel is expecting us."
The black opened the door wide without change of expression. Room
505 turned out to be a small suite. Since doors were open, it could be
seen that there were two bedchambers and a bath. The place was
better furnished, more comfortable than would have been expected of
the Hotel Balcon.
The room they had entered was filled with chairs, a table, files, piles of
papers, maps, and correspondence. Behind an old metal desk sat Colonel
Boris Rivas. Rivas sat straight in his chair, his posture military. His face
was dark and somewhat oily, so that he looked more like a Greek or
Turk than a Frenchman. His black hair was streaked with gray and
looked as though it could use a shampoo. He was on the brawny side, and
wore his civilian clothing uncomfortably.
His dark eyes gleamed dislike but he said, in passable English, "Sit
down, Fraser." He looked at Frank, sent his eyes over to Nat again, but
then brought them back to Frank, whom he took in at greater length.
"And who is this?" he demanded.
Nat had taken one of the comfort chairs, crossing his long legs. Frank
sat down in the other. The big black leaned against the wall and
watched them, his face still expressionless.
The Australian pushed his bush hat to the back of his head and said,
"The arrangement was that there be two of us and two of you. Fair
dinkum. This is Frank Pinell, one of the Grafs newest boys. Frank, our
cheeky cove behind the desk is Colonel Boris Rivas. Who bloody well
promoted him to colonel, nobody seems to know."
"That's enough provocative talk, Fraser," the colonel snapped. "And this
is Sergeant Sengor, long ago of the Senegalese Airborne Commandos,
my right-hand man—and bodyguard." The colonel brought his eyes back
to Frank and said, "You wouldn't be related to the late Buck Pinell,
would you? There is a resemblance."
Frank wrinkled his forehead and said, "My father's name was Willard."
"He was a mercenary?"
Frank said uncomfortably, "Could be. I was very young when he died and
I was told very little about him."
"If you're the son of Buck Pinell, I'm surprised to see you in the employ
of Brandenburg. Pinell was a man. The Graf is a wolf."
Nat said, "Cooee, who's giving with the mucking provocative talk now?"
Rivas ignored him. "I've always suspected that Graf Lothar von
Brandenburg was responsible for Buck Pinell's death."
"Pull your head in," the big Australian growled. "A fine bloke you are to
throw such narky nonsense around. You're crazy as a kookaburra if you
think the Graf did Buck in. They cobbered up with each other when
they were both no older than joeys." He looked over at Frank. "I never
met Buck Pinell meself; before me time, gawdstrewth. But if he was
your father, he was a wowser, from all they say."
The colonel hit his desk a double rap in impatience. "Shall we get on
with it?" he said. "You contacted me for a meeting. Very well, what do
you have to say? I warn you, I will not be intimidated by Brandenburg's
cheap threats."
Nat Fraser grinned at him. "The Graf wouldn't spend his bloody time on
a cheeky zany like you, Rivas. Peter Windsor sent us, strewth. The
mucking message is simple enough for a dingo to get it through his
block. The mercenary business is too bloody small for any competition.
So Windsor says this is your last mucking chance. You and your whole
bloody outfit are invited to join up with Mercenaries, Incorporated."
Boris Rivas's dark face went darker still. He made little attempt to
conceal his rage. "Or else?"
"Windsor thought you'd know," Nat said easily.
"Fraser, you can take this message to that pig Windsor. I am in control
of all contracts in this part of Common Europe. I shall continue to be. I
am not afraid of the Graf. His organization hasn't handled a sizeable
mercenary operation for years. His contracts these days are almost all
individual hit jobs which, of course, are more in keeping with his
talents. Sergeant, see the gentlemen to the door!" Boris Rivas pushed
out of his chair and made his way over to his improvised bar where he
sloshed a sizeable drink into a highball glass, adding no mixer to it
before knocking it back.
Without speaking further to the French mercenary, Nat Fraser came
to his feet and made a gesture with his head to Frank. "Let's do a bunk,
cobber. This bloody arse is asking for it, strike me blind if he isn't."
The sergeant, his face still empty of expression, opened the door for
them.
When they were gone, the colonel, still in a rage, snarled to his guard,
"We'll see about Nat Fraser, the lickspittle. That Windsor scum has his
gall sending two of his gunmen to try and intimidate me. Me! Why, I've
seen more combat than Brandenburg and Windsor put together."
He sat down again at his desk and angrily dialed on his TV phone.
When the face appeared, he snapped, in French now, "Captain Bois, get
over here with as many of your lads as you can assemble within a few
minutes, to man my hotel. The Graf has thrown down the gauntlet. We'll
have to confer. I'm getting in touch with Major Dupres and Captain
Flaubert as well. There's a possibility that we might have some trouble
with that Australian swine, Fraser."
The face on the screen was that of a thin man, somewhat bucktoothed
and now looking cautiously unhappy. "What did Fraser have to say?
Dupres informed me that you were to meet with him."
"Peter Windsor demands that we ally with the Graf. In a subservient
position, without doubt."
Captain Bois said, still cautiously, "And what did you tell him?"
"I threw him out, of course—Fraser, that is. But now I'm alone here
with Sergeant Sengor. I think we'd better move some of the lads into
the hotel, just to be sure. One doesn't know what that murderous
Fraser's orders might be."
The thin man shook his head. "Sorry, Boris. You're not big enough to go
up against the Graf. He tolerated small organizations such as ours in
the past, while recruiting our best men. But now contracts are too few
and far between for him to allow competition. He's amalgamating every
mercenary group still outside the ranks of Mercenaries, Incorporated."
"Traitor!"
The other shook his head again and his tone was apologetic. "I talked it
over with Flaubert. We've both had offers from Windsor to go on the
Graf's full-time retainer, with promotions. I'm afraid we're taking the
offers, Boris. I suggest that you make your own peace with him. He'd
probably promote you to brigadier."
"Brigadier, you ass! He hasn't had a brigade-sized contract since '80."
The other's face was rueful, even as it faded from the screen.
Boris Rivas was livid. He came to his feet again, went back to the liquor,
and repeated his performance of a few minutes before. He said to the
impassive black, "Get a drink, Sergeant," and returned to the desk.
Sengbr went over to the bottles, poured himself a small gin, and
returned with it to his place against the wall, near the door.
Rivas flicked on the phone screen again and dialed. When the face
appeared, it was that of a coarse, middle-aged man who looked as
though he was half drunk. In fact, even as he sat there before the
screen, he lifted a glass to his lips.
Rivas snapped, "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"Well, confound it, get over here with any of the men you have in mat
bistro with you. We're having a fracas with the Graf and his pigs."
"I know. The word is all about town."
The colonel stared at him. "Spread by whom?"
"By Bois and Flaubert, among others. They said that you're washed up,
Boris. They're signing with Brandenburg."
"And what do you think, Henri?" the colonel snarled in a high rage.
The other took another drink. "I've stopped thinking. I can't afford it.
Peter Windsor hasn't approached me. If he doesn't by the weekend,
I'll offer him my services. If he doesn't want them, it looks as though
I'm retired."
The face faded and Rivas slumped back in his chair for a long moment.
Finally, he got up and poured himself another drink, a smaller one this
time. Carrying the glass with him, he went over to one of the curtained
windows. He said to the black, "Turn off those lights."
The sergeant brushed his hand over the switch at the side of the door.
Rivas stood to one side of the window and pushed back the curtain a
few inches. Across the street, he could make out a figure standing in a
doorway. He let the curtain back and for a moment leaned against the
wall, breathing deeply. He knocked the drink back and threw the glass
across the room, shattering it against the far wall. His hand went
beneath his coat to emerge with a small Gyrojet, a silencer attachment
on its muzzle.
"Come on, Sergeant," he muttered. "It's you and me now. We'll go to
ground and start recruiting for our counterattack. That scum
Brandenburg doesn't know what fighting men are. He hires lads to do
his dirty work; hasn't been in action himself for decades. I just wonder
how impregnable that Wolfschloss of his really is."
The sergeant opened the door, peered up and down the dark corridor,
then let the colonel precede him. They hurried down the stairway, the
colonel pressing the light button, as had Nat Fraser, at each landing.
And at each landing they shot glances up and down the hotel corridor.
The lobby was empty.
"This way," Rivas snapped. "Out the back. To the alley."
They went behind the desk and utilized the same door that the
concierge had disappeared through on Nat Fraser's orders. They went
down a dark, narrow corridor to the portal leading out into the alley.
The colonel, gun in right hand, cautiously opened it and peered through.
The alley was dark, very black, and led to the left. It had no lights at
all. One end led out onto the street; the other was a cul-de-sac blocked
by a high brick wall. On each side, the walls were blank and tall. The
only light came from the street, fifty feet away. The door through
which they emerged was at pavement level. The alley was cobblestoned,
going back to the days of Napoleon the Little. As they emerged into it,
two figures entered from the street, cautiously, half crouched.
"Damn!" the colonel snarled. "We can't afford a shoot-out here. The
flics would lay it at my door. Back, back the other way!"
But then he slowly, as though with great care, leaned forward and went
down onto his knees. He coughed softly, then leaned forward again and
put his hands on the cobblestones in front of him. The Gyrojet pistol
clanged to the paving. He slowly bowed his head, as though staring in
fascination at the cobbles before him. There was a splashing sound. His
arms and legs seemed to give way at the same time and he fell forward
into the puddle of his own aortic blood.
Nat Fraser and Frank Pinell came up, tucking their guns back into
holsters beneath their coats. They stared down at the body. A four-
inch combat knife handle protruded upward from the body of Boris
Rivas. The Australian looked up at the sergeant and nodded. "Be with
you in a meejum minute, Sengor."
He turned and led Frank, who had been staring at the fallen man in
dread fascination, twenty feet down the alley.
Nat said, his voice unruffled and unhurried, "You do a bunk back to the
hotel and get your things. I'll stay here with the wog and do the
necessary. Your orders are to go to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein, and to the
Wolfschloss—that's the Graf's stronghold. You're to contact Peter
Windsor there. I won't be seeing you again, cobber, not this time." He
stuck his right hand out. "It was bonzer getting to know you, Frank."
Frank Pinell ignored the hand and looked into the other's face coldly.
He said, his voice even, "I won't shake hands with you, Fraser. You're
no friend of mine. You and Panikkar had it all worked out to set me up
for that Mahdi job. Anybody with a brain in his head could see that it
was a one-way trip. I don't know what happened, or why, but at the last
minute this Peter Windsor, or somebody else on the Graf's staff,
diverted me to this instead. I played along with you for a while, Fraser,
just to see what the hell was going on, but I never would have taken
that Mahdi job. It was suicide."
The big Australian nodded. He took off the bush hat, reset the brim,
then returned it to his head. "What you say's the dinkum oil, cobber.
Sorry. It was out of my mucking hands. I have to take whatever orders
they give me. You see, they've got a lock on me."
He turned and went back in the direction of the sergeant, who had the
body of Boris Rivas under the arms and was hauling it back into the
dark hallway of the hotel.
Frank took the rocket shuttle from Paris to Zurich, then a vacuum tube
to Buchs, on the Liechtenstein border. The vacuum tube line crossed
the tiny principality on its way to Vienna but didn't stop in
Liechtenstein. There was evidently no shuttleport, nor even an airport.
Frank began to get the idea of just how small and remote this country
was when he had to take a surface bus to complete his journey.
There had been no customs inspection at the border; that was taken
care of in Vaduz itself. He didn't spot any police but the bus station
had an official look about it and there were several men lounging about
clad like those stationed at Colonel Ram Panikkar's fortress-like estate
in Tangier—berets, commando-type uniforms, and paratrooper boots.
They carried Gyrojet carbines as naturally as though they had been
bora with them in hand. None of them paid any particular attention to
Frank, who was the sole passenger debarking at Vaduz.
There was a desk with a sign reading Customs and Immigration and,
carrying his own two bags, he made his way to it. The young man there,
dressed in civilian garb rather than a uniform, looked up at Frank's
approach.
He frowned slightly and said in English, after taking in the newcomer's
appearance, "I'm afraid you have made a mistake, sir. Liechtenstein is
not a tourist country. There is nothing particular here to attract
visitors. If you hurry, you can return to the bus, which makes its next
stop in Feldkirch, in Austria. You can take the vacuum tube from there
to Innsbruck or…"
Frank said, "Thanks for the wholehearted welcome, but I'm here to see
Mr. Peter Windsor at the, uh, Wolfschloss, whatever that is."
The other's voice became more brisk. "I see. May I see your
identification?"
Frank brought forth his International Credit Card, which had been
given him by Colonel Panikkar in Tangier. He had wondered at the time
if it was a forgery, but evidently not. He had drawn on it for credit
when traveling without any difficulty. He wondered how many pseudo-
dollar credits he had to his account.
An International Credit Card, as always, doubled as a passport. The
customs man glanced at it and then put it in a slot. In moments, a voice
from the desk screen spoke in German. The official nodded and handed
it back to Frank. He must have pressed a button with either hand or
foot, since one of the uniformed men came up.
The customs man said, "Escort Mr. Pinell to the Wolfschloss. He is to
see Mr. Windsor at the donjon."
"Right," the other said, and took Frank in. He lifted one of the two
pieces of luggage and said, "This way."
Frank followed him out to a small parking area and to one of the several
jeeps there. They put the bags in the back and climbed into the front.
The other looked as though he was probably American and spoke like it
as well. He must have been roughly Frank's own age but had a toughness
about him somewhat reminiscent of Nat Fraser.
As he started up, he said, "First trip here?"
"That's right," Frank said.
"Bore you shitless unless you're quartered up in the schloss. Not bad up
there."
"What's a schloss?"
"Castle."
Frank said, "American?"
His guide hesitated momentarily before saying, "Canadian."
"I guess that makes you an American these days. Been here long?"
The other looked over at him briefly, then turned his attention back to
the road without answering. It would seem that questions weren't good
form locally, though the Canadian had asked the first one.
It was an excellent road. They had passed out of Vaduz in moments.
Frank said, "I work for the Graf, too. At least, I think I do."
That didn't seem to lower any barriers. They went on.
Frank look up shortly and said, "For Christ's sake."
The driver grinned. "Looks like something out of a fairy story the first
time you see it, eh?"
Frank had never seen a castle before, save in historical Tri-Di shows.
He had no idea that they could be this large. The Wolfschloss was built
atop a small mountain. Even the lower foundations were a thousand feet
above the valley floor. It brought to mind an action-filled movie revival
of the last century, depicting the good guys storming the Alcazar in
Segovia. They had used catapults, small primitive cannon, battering
rams, and finally, scaling ladders. It had been on the gruesome side,
with the defenders pouring melted lead and boiling oil down on the
attacking forces. The good guys had finally taken the castle by storm,
but Frank had wondered ever since what sort of soldier would be idiot
enough to be first man up one of those scaling ladders.
He had never expected a castle to be as large as the looming
Wolfschloss. He wondered if it had ever been captured in the old days.
He didn't see how it could have been, before the advent of heavy
artillery.
Along the road, since they had left Vaduz, they had passed guard
houses and on two occasions concrete pillboxes, heavy automatic
weapons projecting from their slots, but they had been stopped only
once, and then, briefly. The guards were obviously acquainted with his
guide.
Now they pulled up before an ultramodern building with two heavy steel
cables extending from its interior up to the schloss. There were ten or
twenty other vehicles in the parking area.
They got out, each carrying a bag, and headed for the entry. There
were two guards there, armed with the usual Gyrojet automatic
carbines, stationed to each side of the metal door, and one who, by his
shoulder tabs, was obviously an officer wkh a sidearm in a quick-draw
holster.
When the two approached, the guide gave an easygoing salute to the
officer and it was returned just as offhandedly.
The guide said to Frank, "Your identification?"
Frank handed it to the officer, who looked at it briefly, handed it back,
and said, "Go on in, Mr. Pinell. You're expected. Welcome to the
Wolfschloss."
The metal door slid to one side, into the thickness of the wall, then slid
silently shut behind them. They were in a moderately large room, steel
of walls, ceiling, and even the floor, which was, however, carpeted. Six
armed men studied the newcomer.
One of the seated officers held out his hand without words and Frank
handed over his International Credit Card again.
There was a faint buzzing sound, and the officer looked at him coldly.
Two of the guards hurried over. The other two covered Frank, less than
casually now.
The officer said, "You're carrying a shooter."
"That's right," Frank told him.
The two guards frisked him quickly and came up with his stubby
Gyrojet with its attached silencer. It was put on the desk of the
examining officer.
That worthy said dangerously, "You mean you've got the gall to try and
get in to see Mr. Windsor armed?"
"For Christ's sake," Frank said, mildly impatient. "It was issued to me
by Nat Fraser, in Tangier. Nobody told me where to hand it in."
The officer looked at him for a long moment, then down at the gun.
"It's one of our models," he muttered. He flicked on a desk screen and
spoke into it in German.
The officer finally looked at Frank's guide and said, "Take him up,
Colin."
While this was going on, two of the other guards had taken Frank's
luggage, opened both bags, and gone through them. Frank got the
feeling that they were being electronically scanned at the same time.
His guide, Colin, said, "This way, Mr. Pinell."
They went through another metal door and into what turned out to be
the cable house proper. It looked like the waiting room of a small
shuttleport. There were unupholstered benches and chairs, and a small
bar at which a pretty young blonde, in a feminine version of the ever-
present commando uniform, presided. There were two more guards at
their ease here, and three civilian-dressed, bored-looking men, all
carrying very ordinary-looking attache" cases.
The ceiling was only partially roofed and the double cables, which were
attached by heavy links of chain to the floor, extended through the
opening. In only moments, a cable car came sliding into the room and
descended into the slot built for it into the floor. One of the guards
went forward and unlocked its door. Two passengers emerged, one a
tall, well-dressed black carrying a very large briefcase, the other an
efficient-looking, middle-aged woman who looked Spanish or Italian.
They headed for a door other than the one Frank and Colin had utilized.
The three other men, one an Oriental, entered the cable car. Frank and
his guide got in, too. The car was rectangular, with rounded corners and
modest windows. By the looks of them, none of the windows could be
opened, and Frank suspected that the glass was bulletproof. As Frank
took a seat, the guard outside locked the door and they took off with a
slight lurch, climbing at a sharp angle though the swaying gondola
remained horizontal.
Frank stared out a window in fascination. Beneath them were scrubby,
hardy trees and massive, jagged boulders, occasionally with wiry grass.
From time to time he could spot a zigzag trail ascending the hill. It
looked as though it hadn't been used for years and, from time to time,
there were indications that it had once been wider—perhaps a narrow
road. In the distance were spectacular snow-topped Alps.
He looked over at Colin and said, scowling puzzlement, "You mean that
this cable car is the only access to the, uh, schloss? Surely it can't be
supplied from a gondola?"
"Of course not," the other grunted. The guide was slumped back in his
seat, not bothering to look out. He had obviously made the trip many a
time.
In ten minutes, the cable car swung into an aperture again and settled
on its skids into another slot. Frank could see, through the windows,
only a small portion of huge castle wall, partially brick, partially massive
stone, before they passed into the interior.
A guard unlocked the door and all issued forth. The three other
passengers hustled off. They left the waiting room of the terminal by
one door, and Colin led Frank through another.
The steel room into which Frank was ushered was similar to that below,
but not identical. For one thing, there were ports in one of the walls
which evidently overlooked the cable car ascent. Before each of them
was mounted heavy weapons of a design Frank had never seen before,
even in films. There were six guards on duty here and, once again, two
officers. Their shoulder tabs looked more impressive than those the
two below had worn.
He went through much the same procedure as before: he was
electronically searched, and his credit card was checked out, then
handed back to him. "Righto, corporal," the bored officer said. "You're
cleared for the donjon."
"Yes, sir," Colin said, saluting in the offhand manner that seemed to
apply to these professionals.
This part of the castle had been reconstructed recently. On the other
side of the metal door through which they exited was a modem, though
militarily barren corridor, which couldn't possibly have dated back to
medieval times. It extended only fifty feet or so before they were
confronted by another heavy portal, which automatically opened for
them onto a vista which made Frank gasp.
Before him lay an immense area, more like a park than the courtyard of
a looming fortress—a park devoted largely to sports. From where they
entered, Frank could see an enormous swimming pool at the far end,
with scores of bathers, both men and women, enjoying the place.
Nearer were a dozen tennis courts, also well patronized. And nearer
still, a fairly good-sized putting green, largely patronized by older
types. There were also practice courts for basketball and jai alai.
Between them were pleasant walks, extensive lawns neat as a golf
green, fountains and gardens spotted here and there.
To the right, however, was also a copter landing pad, and on it two
aircraft, one a heavy cargo carrier, the other a fighter, weapons
protruding from apertures. Frank realized then what his guide had
meant when he'd answered that the cable car wasn't the only manner
of supplying the Wolfschloss.
One had to look about the walls, the battlements, the projecting
turrets, the round towers at the corners of the walls with their conical
tops, to realize that this was indeed the interior of a castle, centuries
old.
"Not bad, eh?" Colin said. "The Graf must have spent a mint doing the
enceinte up like this." He led the way.
"Enceinte?" Frank said.
"The ward," the other told him. "The open area inside the walls."
It came to Frank that the Wolfschloss must house the population of a
small town. The buildings, snuggled up against the heavy stone walls,
were sufficient to provide all the needs of thousands.
The closer Frank looked, the less medieval it seemed. He could make
out anti-aircraft guns, missile launchers, mortars, and machine guns. He
said with a touch of sarcasm, "One small nuke and that's the end of the
whole works."
Colin looked over at him as they walked. "Straight down, about half a
mile, are the bomb shelters. You're as safe here as you'd be in the
Octagon in Greater Washington."
"I'd hate to dig myself out, afterwards."
"You wouldn't have to. There are tunnels leading off to exits more than
a mile away. The Wolfschloss couldn't take a fusion bomb, maybe, but it
could take a helluva lot."
"Where are we going?" Frank said.
"To the donjon."
"What's a donjon?"
"The keep."
"That tells me a lot."
"In the old days, it was the final defense. It was where
DEATHWISH WORLD igj everybody retreated when the walls were
breached Now the Graf and his staff live there.''
Frank could see the keep, the highest and the largest of the towers. It
was a castle within a castle and must have been one hell of a
disappointment to come up against in the days when you had nothing
more than a crossbow, sword, and battleaxe
He was apprehensive about what was to come in his confrontation with
Peter Windsor, the Grafs front man One thing was certain: there was
no line of retreat for him If something went wrong, there was no
possible way for him to get out of the Wolfschloss, even if he had been
armed
Chapter Fifteen: The Graf
As Frank and his guide drew nearer to the keep, its true size became
ever more impressive. By the time they drew up to its sole entrance, he
realized that it was as large as some apartment buildings.
Before the entry were stationed four uniformed guards and an officer.
Gone was the easygoing air Frank had come to associate with the
mercenaries of the Graf. These five were alert and efficient.
Colin came to attention and saluted the officer, who responded just as
snappily and then eyed Frank.
"Franklin Pinell, sir," Colin said crisply. "On appointment to see Mr.
Windsor."
"Your identification, sir," the officer said, holding out his hand.
Frank gave him his card. At this rate, the thing would be worn out
before too long.
The other examined it carefully, returned it, saluted Frank with the
same snappiness, and said, "You're expected, sir."
The ancient medieval door had long since been superseded by a massive
steel one. Built into one side of it was a smaller door, just wide enough
so that two persons could have walked in side by side. It now slid open.
Colin said to Frank, "This is as far as I go, Mr. Pinell. I'm not cleared
for the donjon. Good luck."
Frank went through the door and was again surprised, as he had been
by the parklike effect of the enceinte. The basic medieval aspects of
the keep had been retained. The stone walls and narrow apertures were
still there. The floors were still flagstone. Otherwise, the ground floor
of the keep seemed an ultramodern office building.
There were a score or so office workers in the lobby, walking briskly
here or there, papers in hand. They ranged in age from Frank's early
twenties to sixty or more but most, both men and women, were on the
youthful side. Some were uniformed, some not. Frank approached the
first of the desks, mildly surprised that it wasn't automated. Behind it
sat a sharp-looking young blonde who would have done the reception
room of the largest multinational corporation in Manhattan proud. She
smiled encouragingly. Frank said, "Franklin Pinell to see Mr. Peter
Windsor."
"Your identification, please?"
She took his card, put it into a desk slot, and scanned the screen
before her. She returned it to him, and said perkily, "You're expected,
sir. Elevator one."
The three elevators were numbered in gold. Number one seemed
somewhat more ornate than the others. Frank stepped in. There was no
order screen, nor any other manner that he could see of activating the
compartment. He shrugged.
The door closed and started upward. And continued upward. It would
seem that Mr. Peter Windsor was officed in the higher reaches of the
keep. Eventually, it came to a halt, and he emerged into an office
containing four desks and four very busy workers. It was quite the
swankest office Frank had ever been in, including that of Ram Panikkar
in Tangier. It was difficult to realize that he was in the nerve center of
a castle going back to the days of Richard the Lion-Hearted.
One of the clerks got up from her swivel chair and came toward him
briskly, smiling in the same pert manner as the receptionist below. She
was dressed in what Frank thought must be the latest from Paris. She
said brightly, "Fraulein Krebs is expecting you, Mr. Pinell. If you'll just
come this way." He said, "I was to see Peter Windsor."
"Yes, sir," she said, leading him across the room to a door which was
lettered Margit Krebs in gold. Evidently, he was going to see Fraulein
Krebs whether he liked it or not.
The identity screen picked them up and the door swung open. The girl
said, "Mr. Pinell," and stepped back.
The office inside was luxurious to a point that Frank had never
witnessed even in the most lavish Tri-Di shows. Withal, it managed to
project a touch of femininity. It could never have been taken for a
man's room. Above all, it radiated wealth. Frank was no art expert, but
recognized Impressionist paintings when he saw them. There were two
on the walls. He had no doubt whatever that they were originals.
Behind one desk sat a serious, studious-looking young man and a woman
of, say, thirty-five behind the other. Her strikingly handsome face was
difficult to estimate. She had beautifully dark hair, wore tweeds that
couldn't disguise a very good figure, and her smile was efficient. But
her eyes?
Those eyes had a predatory look as they ran up and down Frank, taking
in his face, his frame. He had a feeling new to him. It was usually the
man who looked at a woman in such a way as to mentally undress her,
estimate her capabilities in bed. Now he felt as though positions were
reversed. Did Fraulein Krebs do this to every man she met?
She said, "Franklin Pinell," even as she rounded her desk and came
toward him with her hand outstretched. "We've been looking forward
to meeting you."
He shook and murmured some amenity, wondering who in the hell we
could be. Why in the world would a bigshot in Mercenaries,
Incorporated want to see him? Surely there wouldn't be anyone in the
organization lower on the totem pole than Frank Pinell. He had been
astonished at the reception he had been getting all the way from Vaduz
to here, the inner reaches of the keep.
Margit Krebs said crisply, "That will be all, Kurt."
The young man at the desk stood, clicked his heels, and said, "Ja,
Fraulein Krebs," and left.
When he was gone, Margit said, leaning her buttocks back against her
desk, "And what do you think of the Wolfschloss?"
He managed a small grin and said, "Flabbergasted. I had no idea of the
size of these European castles, nor the excellent condition some of
them are in."
She nodded at that and smiled. "They're not all so large, of course. And
Lothar spent a considerable sum in renovating this one."
"Like I said, I'm flabbergasted. How many people live here?"
"It varies from day to day, but right now there are 2,321, counting you.
Six left yesterday on assignments, but four others returned."
He blinked at her.
She laughed and said, "I have total recall, which is one of the reasons I
am Lothar's secretary. You see, some items involving Mercenaries,
Incorporated can't be written down. With me on hand, Lothar doesn't
need written records of such items. The records are in my head."
"Lothar?"
She cocked her head a bit to one side. "Lothar von Brandenburg… the
Graf."
"Oh." He cleared his throat. "Actually, Ms. Krebs, I was instructed to
see Mr. Windsor. I'm not sure why."
"Margit," she told him. "In the inner circles, we're informal. I'll take
you to Peter right now. He's expecting you and is rather on the curious
side." She turned and headed for a door opposite the one by which he
had entered.
For a moment, he looked at her blankly. Inner circles? Was the
competent, efficient, handsome Fraulein Krebs suggesting that Frank
Pinell belonged to the inner circles of Mercenaries, Incorporated? She
obviously had made some mistake. But how could anybody as sharp as
the secretary of the Graf be that far off? And why should the
notorious Peter Windsor be curious about meeting Frank Pinell?
He shook his head and followed her. They went down a short corridor
and, without knocking, she pushed open a door and strode in briskly.
More hesitantly, Frank followed.
The office beyond was almost identical to that of Fraulein Krebs in
size, but there was only one desk, and the feminine element was
missing. The wall decorations were of a military nature, including
paintings of war scenes and a flag which was holed in various places by
what looked suspiciously like gunfire, and including a submachine gun
which was racked in the manner that sportsmen display their shotguns
or rifles.
Behind a somewhat battered and littered desk sprawled a lanky man, a
report of some kind in his hand. He wore tennis shoes without socks,
khaki walking shorts, and a khaki shirt, its sleeves rolled up. Frank's
first snap judgment was that the other couldn't be much older than
himself, but later realized on seeing the wrinkles at the side of the
eyes that Peter Windsor projected an air of youth that wasn't there.
He was almost twice Frank's age.
Margit said briskly, "This is Frank, Peter. I'll check with Lothar." She
turned and left. "Sit down, dear boy," Windsor said. And then, as Frank
was doing so, "Yes, I can see the resemblance. You could only be the son
of Buck Pinell."
Frank said, "You knew my father?"
"Not too well, really. Saw him off and on for a few months, I'd imagine.
I don't think that he really fancied me, if the truth be known."
"I didn't know him much myself. I was too young and he was away most
of the time. What was he like?"
The other thought about it, sending his lime-green eyes ceilingward. He
murmured finally, slowly, "A sort of dashing chap. He liked combat, I
shouldn't wonder. Some men do, you know. They live for the
excitement. He liked nothing so much as to find what he considered a
just cause and then fight for it. He didn't mind making a profit at the
same time, but for him, the enjoyment was in the combat. For myself,
and for the Graf, I think, it has always been purely business. Buck
fought for causes, we for money. He wasn't really cut out to be a
soldier of fortune, you know."
"How do you mean? From what I've come to understand, he was a
mercenary."
The Englishman nodded. "He was a soldier but I fancy that the fortune
part of it wasn't of uppermost interest."
Frank didn't know if he quite understood that or not.
The other put down the report he'd been perusing, took up another,
and rapidly scanned it. He said, "And how did the Boris Rivas affair
come off last night?"
"Exactly as you had it set up. Everybody close to the colonel had been
bought—even the concierge at his hotel and his long-time bodyguard.
Poor bastard never had a chance."
Peter Windsor said coldly, "Never give an opponent a chance if you can
avoid it, Pinell. Take every opening you can, every advantage. In that
manner you'll live longer. Rivas had his chance. He was a bloody fool for
not coming in with us. There was no use mucking around with him when
he refused."
Frank said, "I suppose that Senegelese sergeant of his will get a good
position with Mercenaries, Incorporated now."
Peter Windsor shook his head at him. "No. He'll be paid the amount
promised and sent on his way. If he'd betray Rivas, how can we be sure
that he wouldn't betray us, given the opportunity? The Graf never
welches on his commitments but, on the other hand, he demands
loyalty."
Frank said, very evenly, "How did the ethical code apply to me? I was to
be sent on an impossible mission. It's unlikely that I could have
escaped."
The Englishman shook his head again. "At the time, dear boy, you
weren't actually a member of the organization in the same sense that
our exuberant Nat Fraser or Colonel Ram Panikkar are. However, you
were offered a sizeable sum, a hundred thousand pseudo-dollars
desposited to your account in the Bahamas, before you were to leave
for Central Africa. Upon the success of your mission you were to make
your escape and enjoy the amount in whatever manner you saw fit. Very
well, where was the betrayal? If you accomplished your assignment,
your pay was awaiting you."
Frank said softly, "The colonel told me there was to be a chopper
available for me to escape in—not that I was to be on my own."
Peter Windsor raised eyebrows and said, "He did? He wasn't
authorized to make such a pledge. I've always thought Panikkar a bit of
a swine. I'll have to take this up with him. It wouldn't do for the chiefs
reputation to have such items bandied about."
There was a faint humming at one of the desk screens and Peter swung
his feet down to the floor. "That's the Graf now. Come along, Frank."
Frank stood, and as he did so, his eyes came upon the racked
submachine gun. "A keepsake from the old days?" he said.
The Englishman said dryly, "I haven't used it for some years, but it's
still kept loaded."
He led the way, strolling casually out a rear door and down a short,
empty hallway to an elaborate double door. The screen on it picked him
up and half the door opened. They entered.
The Grafs informal office was impressive. So was the Graf. He stood at
the ceiling-to-floor window which framed the Rhine and its valley, his
hands in the coat pockets of his immaculate business suit. He was
staring out, his face characteristically expressionless. On their entry,
the short-statured Graf turned, and, for a long moment, stared at
Frank. Frank, feeling uncomfortable, came to a halt and simply remained
on the spot.
The spry old soldier approached and looked him in the face with open
candor. The American was taken aback by the smoky gray-flecked
irises of the other's eyes and more so when Lothar von Brandenburg
put his womanishly small hands on his shoulders.
The Graf sighed and said, "Yes, you could only be Buck's son. You're
Buck as I first knew him, many years ago when we were both, ah, callow
youngsters." He turned to one of the oversized couches and lowered
himself, saying, "Sit down, Franklin."
Peter Windsor cleared his throat and slumped into one of the chairs,
crossing long legs nonchalantly. He said, "He does look like Buck, at
that. I told him so."
Frank found a place and joined them, still without the vaguest idea what
he was doing here.
The Graf said, "We were somewhat surprised when your arrival in
Tangier was reported."
There was no point in pussyfooting around. Frank had already decided
there was no retreat. He said, "I couldn't have been much of a surprise.
It was already set up. I suspect that the two IABI men were in on it,
possibly even Judge Worthington back in the States. Certainly the cab
driver and the two muggers in the medina in Tangier. First came Nat
Fraser, as implausible a knight in armor as ever came down the pike. He
took me to your Colonel Panikkar, who lavished good will on me,
supposedly putting me deeply into his debt. He gave me strong
arguments for taking an assignment for you. I might look young and ah,
callow, as you put it, but I'm not as much a fool as all that. It was a
suicide project. Actually, I wouldn't have taken it, but Panikkar didn't
know that. I played along, just to see what the hell was going on. But it
was called off from your end, before I ever turned it down. What's got
me wondering is why."
The Graf remained silent through all that. Now he nodded.
Peter Windsor said, "Because we discovered that you were the son of
Buck Pinell, dear boy."
Frank hadn't taken his eyes from the Graf. He said, "Boris Rivas
claimed you might have been the cause of the death of my father."
The old man nodded again. ' 'Then, for once, Rivas spoke the truth. I
was the cause of your father's death, Franklin."
Frank stared at him.
The Graf said, "It was my fault, but I did not kill him, Franklin. Your
father died in my arms, after saving my life. He sacrificed himself to
rescue me. He was my best friend, and I, his. I have not had many
friends in this life, Franklin. His last words were to put your life in my
care."
The young American took long moments to assimilate that. Finally, he
took a deep breath and said, "You didn't seem to do much in the way of
carrying out his request."
The Graf said, "It was taken out of my hands. Your mother was
fanatically against me and all I stood for. She had been violently
against your father's, ah, profession. When my representative
approached her, she absolutely refused to allow me to participate in
your raising. She refused to accept any of your father's extensive
earnings, as she had always refused while he was still alive. The
relationship between your father and mother was not a close one,
Franklin. She was contemptuous of him. She only continued to allow him
to visit occasionally because he was your father and you loved him. Your
mother was a good and compassionate woman with whom Buck Pinell was
deeply in love. She refused to marry him, though he wished it. Their
affair ended when she discovered your father's way of life."
"But my mother is dead now."
The Grafs usually expressionless face registered surprise. "I didn't
know that. I should have kept a closer check on you as the years have
gone by. But still, I hadn't wished to interfere with your mother's plans
for your education and upbringing. It was the only thing for which she
would draw upon your father's accumulated fortune and, even then,
frugally. I had planned to make contact with you upon its completion."
"It's completed now," Frank said flatly.
"I see. And the employment computers didn't select you for a position
in whatever field you had selected?"
"That's correct. In any of the fields I selected."
"Why not?" the Graf said bluntly.
"Because there are jobs in our economy for only about five percent of
the population. But the fault is largely mine. I switched subjects too
often. I started in aviation, but after a few years, I could see that it
was becoming so highly auto-mated that there were going to be
practically no positions available. So I switched to space and spent a
few years cramming so that I might be chosen to go to Lagrange Five or
the Asteroid Belt. But then the government began cutting back
drastically on new space expenditures, so drastically that it was all but
impossible to get out to the space islands. So then…"
"Very well. I can see your problem. So when you finished your schooling
you were unable to find employment."
"Actually, I've never quite finished it, though it became more difficult
after my mother's death and my source of income was cut off. She
never gave me access to my father's resources, hating them as she did.
I'm not even sure that she could have. I don't know what the legal
arrangements were. Since then, I've largely been on GAS. However,
I've held a few small jobs out of the ken of the computers. In between
I continued my studies as best I could."
The Graf leaned back in the couch. "You might consider a position in my
organization, Franklin."
Peter Windsor had been listening, his eyebrows a little high. Obviously,
much of this was new to him but he learned best by listening.
Frank Pinell, who had been gaining confidence over the past fifteen
minutes, shook his head at the old mercenary's words. He said, "I have
certain reservations. Nat Fraser and Colonel Panikkar gave me a
rundown on the position you assume on the things you do in your, uh,
organization. However, I suspect that toward the end, at least, my
father might have had some of the same reservations. What did they
call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century. I've read a little
about Lee Christmas. I wonder if he ever went in for outright political
assassination."
"Possibly not. I checked on this early American mercenary after
Fraulein Krebs gave me a bit of his background the other day. He was
an uncouth, uneducated man—a railroad worker, I understand, before
becoming a soldier of fortune. Undoubtedly, he had the usual
prejudices of his time and his upbringing."
The Graf's voice was becoming a bit impatient. "See here, Franklin, you
must realize that mankind accepts the fact of killing his fellow man
under acceptable circumstances. What are acceptable circumstances is
the bone of contention. Even the assassin can become a hero—given
circumstances. Let us take a few examples from the history of your
own very aggressive nation. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Colonel
Travis, heroes of the Alamo, were not Texans. They were American
adventurers; mercenaries. The Alamo was not garrisoned by Texans, it
was garrisoned by men of many nations sent to that part of Mexico to
seek their fortunes with their guns. The flag that flew over the Alamo
was that of a troop of New Orleans volunteers. How many true Texans
were there I do not know, but certainly Crockett was not one of them.
He had been a Representative in Congress from Tennessee."
"I didn't know that," Frank murmured.
The Graf went on. "A group of American mercenaries during the First
World War formed the Lafayette Escadrille, a pursuit squadron in the
French Air Force. By American law, this should have deprived them of
American citizenship. Instead, as soon as the United States entered
the conflict, they became heroes, and their squadron became part of
the American forces. The Flying Tigers who fought as mercenaries
under Chiang Kai-shek against the Japanese before Pearl Harbor?
These men were all highly trained pilots from American army, navy, and
air force schools, and they flew the latest in American fighters. They
were paid for each plane they shot down, with American money
funnelled to China. But they were mercenaries, and became American
heroes, instead of losing their citizenship.
"So much for mercenaries; let us consider assassins. Suppose that in my
own country the General Staff had been successful in assassinating
Hitler. Would they not now be heroes?"
The young American was unhappy. He said, "Panikkar and Nat Fraser
gave me similar arguments. They didn't convince me."
Peter Windsor said, "Let's face reality. Man kills his fellow man for
profit, don't you know? Take the owner of a colliery. The mine is unsafe
because he has ignored expensive safety devices. It caves in and fifty
of his miners are buried alive. Indirectly, he has killed them—for
profit. Is he ever brought to trial? I fancy not. He is a pillar of the
community."
The Graf said, "But enough of this for now. You must be
Reynolds with Dean Ing
tired, Franklin. We'll meet for dinner. No need for you to make a
decision at this time."
Evidently, he had signalled somehow since Sepp, the liveried butler,
materialized. "Bitte, Herr Graf," he said, bowing.
"Sepp," the elderly mercenary said, "this is Mr. Franklin Pinell. See him
to his suite. I suppose his bags have been delivered by now. And see
that he is assigned a valet."
"Ja, Herr Graf." Sepp turned to Frank. "Mr. Pinell?"
Frank nodded at Peter Windsor, came to his feet, and followed the
stone-faced servant out a side door.
In the medieval stone corridor along which Frank followed Sepp, the
elderly servitor said politely, "If I may say so, sir, you resemble your
father remarkably."
"So everybody's been telling me. You knew my father?"
"I had the honor to serve with him in two campaigns, sir," Sepp said, his
voice politely inflectionless. "Before I lost my leg."
Involuntarily, Frank glanced down and now noticed that the servant
limped lightly.
Frank said, "I had gathered that the Graf made a policy of granting
suitable compensations for his wounded men. Shouldn't you be living in
comfortable retirement somewhere?"
"Well, yes, sir. But you see, I am wanted by both Interpol and the
American LABI. I am safe here."
"That you are," Frank smiled. "From what I've seen of it, this castle
has many attributes of a resort. Shouldn't you be able to retire right
here?"
They had reached a heavy wooden door and, for a moment, the servant
stood with his hand on the knob. For the first time Frank saw a slight
expression on the other's usually immobile face. It was ruefulness. He
said, "I suppose so, sir. However, the Herr Graf is used to my service.
And… besides, it is of interest to be here in the center of things."
He opened the door and they stepped inside. Frank's luggage lay in the
living room's center. The suite was spacious—an extensive living room
with ornate wooden furniture, a bedroom with an enormous canopied
bed, a large bath, and what Frank assumed was a small study. He was
again surprised at the art of whatever interior decorater had
redesigned the donjon of the Wolfschloss. The man had been a genius
in merging the old and new. That the rooms were those of a
Dark Ages castle was obvious, but they were modern in the best sense
of comfort. That they had once been cold, damp, and grim could easily
be imagined, but not with the modern conveniences added. The suite
was absolutely palatial.
"It is satisfactory, sir?" Sepp said with polite anxiety.
At this height in the keep, it had undoubtedly never been necessary to
continue the narrow bowmen's apertures that prevailed on the lower
levels. The windows were spacious and looked out on a picturesque
setting of Alps, glaciers, streams, and the upper reaches of the Rhine.
Frank shook his head. "It's a beautiful suite, Sepp. What was this
about a valet?"
"I'll assign you Helmut, sir. A very reliable servant."
"What do I need him for?"
The old soldier-turned-butler seemed a touch surprised. "Why, sir,
he'll do for you. Something like a batman, an orderly, sir."
Frank sighed. It would be an advantage to have somebody who could
show him the ropes. He didn't even know his way around the corridors.
He said, "All right, but tell him the less I see of him, the better."
"Sir, Helmut will never intrude unless summoned. Is there anything else,
sir?"
Frank looked around. There was even a heavy wooden bar, which looked
handcarved, set up against one wall. "I suppose not," he said. "Thanks,
Sepp."
"Not at all, sir. I was always a great admirer of your father, sir. In the
fracas in which I lost my leg, he carried me over a kilometer through
enemy fire to the nearest field hospital." He coughed before adding,
"Although he was wounded himself."
Frank couldn't think of anything to say to that, and the ramrod-erect
old man turned to leave.
When he reached the door and was about to open it, he hesitated
momentarily, then half turned and said, "Don't trust any of them, Mr.
Pinell."
Chapter Sixteen: Frank Pinell
In the Grafs informal office, Lothar von Brandenburg was saying to his
aide, "What do you think of him, Peter?"
Peter said slowly, "Frank seems a straight-speaking young man.
Adequate education, all that sort of thing."
The Graf looked at him. "You seem to have reservations."
"Well, not really. But you seem to accept him rather wholeheartedly. He
is frightfully young to be taken into our inner circles."
The older man gave one of his rare, gray smiles without humor. "He is
older than you were when I first met you, Peter."
The Englishman waggled a hand in rejection. "Perhaps we went to
different schools."
"We shall sound him out further at dinner, but meanwhile, I am quite
impressed," the Graf told him. "Ram Panikkar and that Australian fellow
didn't hoodwink him for a moment. Meanwhile, let us be about the day's
developments. Where is Margit?"
It wasn't a question that needed an answer. Margit entered
immediately, obviously having been summoned.
She said briskly, "Lothar, Peter," and took her chair.
Peter said, "There's one item, Chief, on which we should get cracking.
This Roy Cos, who signed a standard Deathwish Policy in Nassau."
"The Wobbly organizer? Yes, of course. I thought we notified Cellini, in
New York, to put a couple of top men on him."
"Jolly well," Windsor said in disgust, "but our Mr. Cos is still with us and
Brett-James, who sold the contract, is screaming like a chap with the
blue spiders. Cos and his business manager, a Forrest Brown, are
spending money like autumn leaves on the wind. Ordinarily, the poor
bloody clods who sign these contracts have neither the imagination to
spend a fraction of their million pseudo-dollars a day available, nor to
avoid our people. They usually go on a drunken, woman-chasing binge in
some expensive resort. They take the most posh suites and they buy—
dear God, do they buy!"
The Graf eyed him in incomprehension. "But what does this Cos fellow
do?"
"He's spending, right up to the hilt each day, on prime Tri-Di time for
his lectures. He's also renting huge auditoriums for his rallies, and
hiring a large staff of bodyguards and aides, such as publicity men and
speech writers."
Margit said, "Can't he be reached through bodyguards or other
employees?"
Windsor shook his head. "Not so far. We had a publicity man lined up
but he was discovered. The bodyguards are all trusted Wobblies and
the attempts to bribe them into defecting have all met with violence.
But that's not the only difficulty. His message is beginning to get over.
For a century and a half the few radicals of the United States have
been a laughingstock. Nobody bothered to listen to their demands for
fundamental changes, don't you know? But now the proles, caught up in
the emotion of his plight, are beginning to consider his program. I've
heard from two members of the Central Committee of the World Club.
This man is a potential danger to the overall program. They demand
that he be liquidated posthaste."
The Graf said, "Notify Cellini to drop all else and concentrate on this
man. Why can't he be picked off by a sniper from a distance?"
"Because wherever he goes there are mobs around him. Not just
bodyguards—there are eight of them now—but his staff and thousands
of gawking curiosity seekers, most of them at least partially in his
favor. A hit man can't get near him without running into considerable
danger, and from a distance, there are so many people about him that a
man with a rifle can't get a clear bead on the sod."
The Graf said impatiently, "That is for Cellini to solve, Peter. And that
brings up the matter of the World Club. How did the operation against
Harold Dunninger work out?"
"Completely as planned. A really good show. Nils Ostrander deserves a
bit of a bonus."
The mercenary head looked at his secretary. "Refresh me on the
details, Fraulein."
Margit's eyes went vague. She recited, "Harold Dunninger, international
tycoon. Candidate member of the Central Committee of the World Club
and, until his recent death, considered most likely to be admitted to
the Central Committee upon the retirement of Grace Cabot-Hudson. He
belonged to the so-called liberal element in the Central Committee,
which includes such people as Jeremiah Auburn, Fong Hui, and Mendel
Amschel, who wish to see the forming of a world state based on more
democratic principles than most. The liberal element is opposed by such
members as Harrington Chase, John Warfield Moyer, and the
Committee's secretary, Sheila Duff-Roberts. Also, of course, by such
candidate members as the Prophet of the United Church and yourself.
It became necessary that Harold Dunninger be eliminated to increase
your chances of being nominated a full member of the Committee.
Obviously, it could not be handled in the usual manner or suspicion
would immediately fall upon Mercenaries, Incorporated. So our mole in
the Nihilists was instructed to kidnap Dunninger and hold him for a
ransom of fifty million pseudo-dollars, with his life forfeit if the
ransom was not paid."
The Graf interrupted, speaking to Peter Windsor. "Suppose he had paid
the ransom. Then the Nihilists would have had no escuse to execute
him."
Peter yawned and said, "We looked into it thoroughly. He was on the
outs with his wife, don't you know? And she was in control of his
interests in his absence. We were quite certain that she would never
pay such a sum. She didn't. He's dead and the killing laid at the
doorstep of the Nihilists."
The Graf thought about it and finally nodded in agreement. "Very well,
I understand that the Central Committee is in session in Rome. You will
go there as my deputy, Peter, and exert what pressure you can to have
me entered as a full member into the Committee. I assume that your
strongest competitor for the honor will be the Prophet."
Windsor said thoughtfully, "Don't you think it would be better, Chief,
if you went yourself? You've been a Candidate
Member for years but none of the Committee have ever met you. You'd
throw more weight if you attended, I shouldn't wonder."
The Graf grunted contempt of that opinion. "Peter, I have not left the
Wolfschloss for twenty years. The last time I did, three separate
attempts were made on my life. The last nearly succeeded. No, I'll stay
here. Keep in mind that the Prophet will also be represented by a
deputy. He has no intention of permitting a rumor that he is so worldly
as to belong to the World Club. Is there anything else?"
Peter said, "One other item that ordinarily I wouldn't bother you with.
A black named Horace Hampton, who seems, ah, an enigma. He is an
active member of the Anti-Racist League in America and indications are
that he will soon be raised to membership in their National Executive
Committee. This Anti-Racist League has come under the scrutiny of the
World Club. So long as they were confined to North America alone they
could be largely ignored. But with the Central Committee about to take
steps to expand the United States of the Americas, these militant
anti-racists take on a new posture."
"How do you mean?" the Graf said impatiently. "The next step in the
erecting of a World State is to invite Australia and New Zealand to join
the UnituI States of the Americas. The computers conclude that, if
invited, they will join. Perhaps Great Britain and Ireland will be next. In
all four countries there are few minorities, so the anti-racists are no
difficulty. However, offering membership to still other nations poses a
problem. Suppose India is approached. If the Anti-Racist League were
to infiltrate and influence India, her votes would swamp the new United
States of the World."
"What has all this got to do with Horace Hampton?"
"He is one of the more intelligent and aggressive members of the
League. Sheila Duff-Roberts has given us a contract on this mystery
man. I strongly suspect that the National Data Banks have been
corrupted to the point of his dossier being a fake."
Margit said musingly, "It isn't the easiest thing in the world to
infiltrate the American National Data Banks."
"No, it bloody well isn't," Peter said. "And it seems unlikely that an
organization as short of funds as this League could do it."
The Graf said, "So we have a contract on the man. Very well, have it
executed."
Peter looked at him. "Chief, it occurs to me that we might send young
Pinell to deal with this beggar."
The older man's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because the boy's inexperienced. You've obviously got plans for him.
Very well, he handled himself well on the Rivas assignment, to the
extent that he was needed at all. But it would seem to me that he
needs a bit more blooding. No particular hurry, but it will give him an
opportunity to learn something about the organization. He'd have to
work through our local representatives in the States, of course."
"I'll consider the matter," said the Graf. "Very well, if that's all, I'll
see you tonight at dinner."
Dismissed, Margit Krebs and Peter Windsor came to their feet and
headed for the door.
In the corridor, as they headed for their own offices, Margit looked up
at the rangy Englishman. She said, softly, "You didn't mention to Lothar
that this Horace Hampton is considered the most efficient field man in
the Anti-Racist League and very dangerous as compared to our Frank."
He said, "If you thought so, why didn't you say something to the Chief
to that effect?"
"Possibly, just to find out what you're up to, Peter, dear." She eyed him
mockingly. "You couldn't be getting second thoughts about Buck PinelFs
son, could you, Peter? For years now, you've been second man in
Mercenaries, Incorporated. Undoubtedly, you've expected to take over
when the Graf either retires or dies."
"Who's better suited to take over the reins? But Lothar's in a position
to turn over the whole organization to this stripling. If he did, an outfit
that has taken half a century to build could go down the spout
overnight. Then where would you and I be, Margit, old thing?"
She reached the door of her office and stood there for a moment,
considering it.
"How do you stand?" he demanded.
"I don't know," she said evasively .^"Perhaps you're overestimating
Lothar's acceptance of Frank."
"Perhaps," he grunted and went on.
She looked after him and thought to herself, Peter is beginning to
wonder if the Graf isn't getting too old for the job. Perhaps a touch of
senility. I'd hate to be in the crossfire if it came to a showdown.
Margit, my girl, you'd better start considering on what side of your own
bread the butter is on.
Dinner that night was another revelation to Frank Pinell, in a day that
had been full of them. The baronial hall in which it was held was one
flight up in the keep from the offices and suites. The whole floor was
evidently devoted to the Grafs living quarters.
Frank had entered the palatial living room attired in the dark suit which
Helmut, his newly appointed valet, had laid out for him. There hadn't
been much of a choice. He had bought two suits in Paris, on Nat
Fraser's suggestion, and several pairs of shoes. All the clothing he had
brought with him from America he had discarded, also at Fraser's
suggestion. But now he realized that he had made a mistake. The Graf,
Peter Windsor, and Margit Krebs were all in evening wear. Margit
looked stunning and ten years younger in a simple black silk affair that
brought out the pale perfection of her Scandinavian skin. She wore but
one item of jewelry, a matched string of pearls whose deep pink luster
was obvious from across the room.
The three were seated about a cocktail table, sipping drinks and
chatting, as Frank came in. The Graf looked up and frowned but then
said, "Please give us the pleasure of your company, Franklin. Sit down."
The Graf added smoothly, "We always dress for dinner, Franklin, but I
assume your travel clothing is limited."
Frank said, "I've never worn so much as a tuxedo, not to speak of tails.
You don't when you're on GAS, you know."
"Forgive me. It skipped my mind that you didn't inherit your father's
fortune. Yes, Sepp?"
The butler leaned forward slightly and spoke to his master in German.
"Ah," the mercenary grunted. "Dinner is served. Margit?" With his
secretary on his arm, followed by Peter Windsor and Frank, he passed
through the double doors into the dining room.
Compared to the refurbishing of the rest of the keep, the dining hall
had hardly been touched by the genius of an interior decorator. Frank
could well imagine the old days when some long-dead duke, princeling, or
archbishop had held forth here. His closest henchmen would be present
with their women, wassailing about a huge round table, while minstrels
and clowns provided medieval entertainment, as scurrying servants
brought on heaping platters of food, and huge mugs with foaming beer,
mulled wine, or subtle mead.
The table, however, was considerably smaller than that which must
have prevailed in the old days. It would have seated eight at most. The
setting was on the awesome side, so far as Frank was concerned. He
had never eaten with more cutlery than knife, fork, and spoon, never
eaten by candlelight, and most certainly had never eaten off gold.
The Graf sat at one end of the table, Margit at the other, and Peter
and Frank across from each other. It came to Frank that Peter
Windsor was a changed man in evening dress, after his informal sports
garb of the day. Now he looked as though he had been bom to wear
formal evening attire; a matinee idol couldn't have been more at ease in
it.
Sepp presided with two footmen, also in livery, behind each chair. No
more than two sips were taken from a wine glass before it was instantly
refilled. It was all on the thick side so far as Frank Pinell was
concerned.
It got thicker as the meal progressed. He recognized exactly two of
the dishes presented, or at least the ingredients. One was a potato dish
which would have been hard to miss, and one a delightful scallop-based
fish course. He made the mistake of commenting on the scallops.
"Ah," the Graf said, pleased. "You mean the Coquilles Saint Jacques
Parisienne? It is one of Albert's specialities. He will be overjoyed to
know you approve."
Peter said, after sipping at his Chablis, "Albert is one of the three best
chefs in Common Europe, Frank. It's a privilege to eat from his kitchen,
I should think."
Frank said, "You mean to tell me that one of the best three cooks in
Europe works here for just the three of you? I'd think he could get a
job in any restaurant in the world."
"The four of us now," his host said magnanimously. "Fortunately, Albert
is in no position to tender his resignation."
Margit said dryly, "Liechtenstein is somewhat like Tang-ier, in that
there are no extradition laws; and since Albert made the mistake of
killing his wife, he sees fit to remain as Lothar's chef."
"Poisoned her, to be exact," Peter said blandly.
Frank looked down at the morsel of scallop on his fork and closed his
eyes in sorrow.
There were eight courses in all, with eight wines, winding up with a
dessert which Margit told him was Nesselrode Pudding with Sabayon
Fruit, served with a slightly chilled sauterne.
Largely, the dinner conversation consisted of the Graf expounding on
his dreams and turning on what small charm he boasted in order to win
the younger man over. Both Margit and Peter seemed surprised at the
extent to which he revealed top secrets of the innermost circle of
Mercenaries, Incorporated. It would seem that Lothar von Brandenburg
was most certainly now considering Frank to be a member of that
circle, in which case, it was the most rapid promotion the organization
had ever seen.
All of the servants save Sepp spoke nothing but German, and the table
conversation was in English.
The Graf had said, "You are acquainted with the World Club, Franklin,"
while still on the oxtail soup.
"Just slightly," Frank said. "Isn't it an organization of economists,
philanthropists, and international do-gooders seeking solutions to
worldwide problems?"
"That is the facade we present to the man in the street," the other
said, satisfaction in his voice.
"We?" Frank said.
"Mercenaries, Incorporated is represented in the highest echelons of
the World Club."
"That surprises me. I pictured the organization as a group of old-
timers with more credits than they know what to do with, supporting a
lot of foundations."
Peter Windsor gave a snort of amusement.
The Graf said, "I expect within a short time to be nominated to the
Central Committee, which consists of but ten members and has the
ultimate say in all of the World Club's policies."
"I didn't even know they had a Central Committee," Frank admitted.
"You're not supposed to, dear boy," Peter said.
The Graf shot him an impatient look before turning back to Frank. He
said, "The real goal of the World Club, Franklin, is world government—a
world that has become one under the aegis of the Club. Obviously, such
a united world will no longer have wars and…"
Frank interrupted, "But then what would happen to Mercenaries,
Incorporated? It seems to me that your organization depends upon a
multitude of antagonistic nations. You should be supporting nationalism,
not trying to do away with it."
The Graf smiled his gray smile. "It's a far-seeing man who is able to
accommodate inevitable changes, Franklin. Sooner or later there will be
world government. When it comes about, I wish to be part of its
direction, not a leftover from the past. This new world government will
still have police, still have armed forces…"
Frank interrupted again. "Why armed forces?"
The old mercenary nodded at the question. "To keep the peace.
Contrary to popular belief, the first need a state has for an armed
force is not to fight foreign enemies but the potential enemy within. As
an example, take Latin America before it amalgamated with the United
States. They spent billions annually building up then* armed forces
though there hadn't been a major war in South America for a century
and a half. Those arms were to keep their own people in subjection. So
in the future, armed forces will still exist. I will be at their head."
Frank looked at him in open skepticism.
Margit said, "The first steps have already been taken, Frank—the
formation of the United States of the Americas. The World Club is
already secretly agitating in Australia and New Zealand for them to
apply for admission into the United States. For a long time now, those
countries have been closer to America than to England and the rest of
Common Europe."
Frank looked over at her. Candlelight did nothing to detract from the
charms of Margit Krebs. She flashed sloe eyes at him, aware of their
impact.
He made a mental note of her obvious availability, then turned back to
his host. "If the United States of the Americas eventually becomes a
United States of the World, wouldn't the IABI become the
international police force?"
The Graf waved that aside, saying, "It's true that John Warfield
Moyer, a member of the Central Committee, foresees a united world in
which his IABI will be the sole police force; but his organization has
been a farce since before the FBI and the CIA were joined together.
An organization of clowns, headed by clowns, compared to my own.
Moyer will be taken care of, in good time."
Frank thought about it. He said slowly, "Then you're in the process of
phasing out your mercenary activities in expectation of becoming legal
under this new world regime."
"That's one way of putting it," Peter said.
Lothar von Brandenburg said, "You are beginning to have second
thoughts about my organization, Frank?"
"Perhaps. What about these assassinations, though?"
"Such as the Mahdi? The only thing that will make sense under a world
government is a state religion. The United Church, under the Prophet,
backs the World Club. The fanatic who calls himself the Mahdi stands
in the way of the amalgamation into one of all the world's religions. I'm
afraid he must go. Others, too, of course. Always remember, Franklin,
that a comparatively few key figures can change history. The example
of Somerset Maugham comes to mind. In his earlier years, while
working for British espionage, he was sent to Petrograd to sabotage
the Bolshevik revolution. He wrote later that if he had been sent two
weeks earlier he might have accomplished his task and the revolution
would never have taken place. How would he have done this? He
probably had in mind the assassinations of Lenin and Trotsky and
perhaps of a few others of the old Bolsheviks."
The American said grudgingly, "I suppose in some respects you've made
your point. Under some circumstances, assassination can be called for.
But what happens when someone approaches you with a proposal to kill
someone who doesn't deserve killing?"
The Graf raised his eyebrows. He put down his glass of wine. "My dear
Franklin, we are pragmatists, not mad dogs. Our interests are not only
money. Suppose, for instance, that Mercenaries, Incorporated was
approached by an enemy of the Prophet. As I told you, we support the
United Church in its efforts to join all organized religions into a single
worldwide state church, ending once and for all conflicts between
faiths. Very well, not only would we refuse the contract, but we would
inform Ezra Hawkins, the Prophet, about this foe of his, so that he
could take steps to protect himself."
"By hiring Mercenaries, Incorporated to eliminate the enemy?" Frank
said.
Peter Windsor chuckled. "You're catching on, dear boy.'*
Following dinner, they sat for a time in the living room over coffee and
cognac. The talk drifted, in deference to Frank, to stories involving his
father. The Graf carried most of the conversation, since his
relationship with Buck Pinell had extended over years, but Peter
Windsor was also able to contribute a few anecdotes. Most of the
stories were of a humorous nature and it came to Frank that combat
veterans seldom talked much about actual combat itself. When it was
shop talk, yes; something involving business at hand. But not as light
conversation. Perhaps amateurs might brag of their exploits under fire,
but professionals, no. And you couldn't get much more professional than
Lothar von Brandenburg and Peter Windsor.
When the party broke up, Margit offered to conduct Frank back to his
suite. The winding corridors and stone stairways of the keep took some
learning, and under the influence of the wines during the meal and the
generous brandies following it, Frank wasn't sure he could find his way
unaided. The Graf looked tolerant, Peter amused, as they said their
goodnights. On the morrow, Frank was to be assigned a guide to show
him the Wolfschloss in detail.
As they strolled along the stone corridor, Frank decided that nicety
wasn't called for.
He said, "Your rooms, or mine?"
She looked up at him from the side of her eyes. "I thought you'd never
ask. Yours. You might never find your way bck to your own suite in the
morning."
And that was the full extent of their courting, then- preliminary love
play. Margit was a businesslike woman, in her sex life as well as her
secretarial work.
In fact, she was as straightforward a woman as he had ever bedded,
and at his age, Frank had seldom gone without horizontal refreshments
when he had desired them.
In his bedroom, she had stripped with flattering haste, and had
pirouetted exactly once, to show off the woman's body, saying, "Like
me?" before sliding into the emperor-sized canopied bed.
His voice was on the thick side as he told her, "Yes," climbing out of his
own clothes.
"Good heavens," she said, teasing him, "is that for me?"
"Yes," he said hoarsely, already rampant.
Not for Margit Krebs were new variations of the world's oldest theme.
She took her sex straight and lustily, somewhat surprising Frank, who
had expected unique desires on the part of this sophisticated wanton.
Perhaps that would come later, he decided as he performed for her.
For the present, his lady wanted immediate basic action.
And wanted it again, within minutes after they had both reached
rapturous climax. He began to wonder if he had known what he was
getting into, so to speak.
Later, as they rested, both staring up at the rich cream-colored canopy
above, he said, only partly in humor, "And what is a nice girl like you
doing in this kind of work?"
She followed along. "What's the classic answer to that? Just lucky, I
guess."
"Come on, come on. On the face of it you're the junior member of the
staff that runs the toughest organization on Earth. Why would a woman
like you want to hold down such a job? With your obvious ability you
could get top positions anywhere. So why be the notorious Grafs
secretary?"
She looked at him strangely. "It's where the power is."
"I don't understand."
"The Graf is the single most powerful man in the world, darling. Not the
wealthiest, not the one with the most political clout, but the most
powerful. Others may not always realize that, but he is."
"Why?"
"Because he holds the life of every other living person in the palm of
his hand."
He thought about that for a long moment, before saying, "But that's
him, not you."
"The Graf doesn't operate in a vacuum," she told him patiently. "There
is no such thing as a one-man dictatorship. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Mao
were the heads of teams. Without the team around them, they
wouldn't have been able to cope. The same with Napoleon and
Alexander the Great.
Alexander would have been nothing but a headstrong, alcoholic youth
had it not been for Nearchus, Parmenion, and other leaders trained by
his father Philip. True enough, the Empire broke up upon his death,
when the team started fighting among themselves. But while they were
still a team, with him at the head, they were invincible. So it is with the
Graf. He does not stand alone, making all decisions. He has a team. I'm
part of the team. You might be, too."
That quieted him.
She said, a quirk of amusement there, "I should warn you about Lothar.
I think perhaps he's getting a bit tired of Peter, who isn't quite as
young and pink-cheeks as he used to be."
That came as a surprise. "You mean he's gay?"
She laughed. "What is your old American expression? He's as queer as
chicken shit."
"Not my cup of tea," he said gruffly.
"You've already proven that, darling, though I do hope that you're up to
proving it again." She reached over to stroke him intimately.
Frank said, "Wizard, but hold it for just a little, eh?"
"You mean that literally?" she said, wickedness in her voice.
"You're a sexpot. Did anyone ever tell you that?"
"Yes."
He frowned again and said, "What ever happened to my father's
estate? From what you people say, he must have been a partner for
something like twenty years. When he died my mother refused to take
anything except enough to educate me on. What happened to the rest?"
"Why, I don't know, darling." She frowned as well. "And I should know.
I'm supposed to know everything connected with Mercenaries,
Incorporated."
Chapter Seventeen: Lee Garrett
When Lee Garrett reported to the office of Sheila Duff-Roberts early
in the morning of the day after she had arrived, it was to find the
Amazon-like secretary of the Central Committee of the World Club
already deep in work. A cigarette, half an ash, dangled from the side of
her mouth, and the smoke from it spiraled upward.
Sheila looked up, did her sparse smile, and said, "Good morning, darling.
I rather expected you to return here after your lunch with Jerry
Auburn yesterday. Do sit down."
Lee took the indicated chair and said apologetically, "We ran into some
difficulty. By the time it was ironed out I felt exhausted and Mr.
Auburn took me back to my suite."
"Difficulty?"
"He was attacked in the restaurant by a waiter, apparently a Nihilist.
I've read about them, of course. But…" she shook her blond head "…
good heavens, I didn't know it had gotten to the point where they were
attacking prominent people right in the open."
The other at last noticed the length of her cigarette ash and tapped it
off into her improvised ash tray. Her eyes narrowed. "Nihilists! The
bastards are really getting out of hand. Just recently they kidnapped
one of our candidate members of the Central Committee and shot him
when his wife couldn't pay a fifty million pseudo-dollar ransom.
Something simply will have to be done. What happened?"
"It was terrible. The man was about to shoot Jerry—Mr. Auburn—from
behind. But something made him turn and, well, Jerry knows savate
and…"
"What the hell's savate?"
"A method of fighting with the feet; an old French sport with some
aspects of karate. Jerry disarmed the man and had kicked him
unconscious before the others arrived. The manager, of course, was
extremely upset. He said that the waiter was a new man who had only
been there for a few days. He called the police, of course."
Sheila shook her head. "Trust Jerry to come up with something like
that, fighting with his feet. Undoubtedly, he'll report on it later. With
almost all of the Central Committee in Rome, we can't afford to run
chances of assassination. Which reminds me: we're to have a party
tonight. All of the Central Committee members and candidate members
will be present. It will give you an opportunity to meet them and for
them, of course, to get an impression of you. In the ballroom, beginning
at nine."
Lee frowned. "Candidate member?" she said.
"Yes. You see, there are but ten members of the Central Committee,
plus myself as secretary. Most of them are rather elderly. So, at any
given time, there are as many as a score or so candidate members,
waiting to be made full members upon the death or retirement of any
of the present incumbents. One of the matters to be handled at this
session is such a promotion. Grace Cabot-Hudson hasn't been active for
some time, so she is being asked to retire to the position of Central
Committee Member Emeritus and a new member will be appointed."
In an angry movement of a well-manicured hand, she took up another
cigarette and lit it, before going on. "And it's ten to one that it won't
be another woman. Male dominance still prevails in the Central
Committee. You'd think that at least half the members should be
female, but no. The male ego we still have with us." She snorted. Then,
"Well, be that as it may, dear, I'll see you at the party tonight. Have
you met any of the other members, besides Jerry?"
"I haven't had the opportunity."
"I mentioned you to Fong Hui, who has just rocketed in from Hong Kong.
He'd like to meet you. Fong is the only Oriental Central Committee
member, though there are candidates from Japan, India, and
Indonesia."
"When did he wish to see me?"
"This morning." Sheila Duff-Roberts touched a button on her TV phone.
Almost immediately, a door leading to the back opened and a girl
bustled through. She was a tiny thing, smaller than Lee Garrett and
absolutely dwarfed by the Junoesque Sheila. She was a bit on the plump
side, which didn't detract from her vivacity.
Sheila said, "Lily Palermo, Lee Garrett. Lee is to be my new secretary,
Lily darling, to replace Pamela. But you girls can get to know each other
later. Right now, I'd like you to take Lee to Fong Hui's apartment. The
old fuddy-duddy's expecting her."
"Right away," Lily said. And to Lee, "My, you must have spent a fortune
on that hair."
Lee came to her feet and said to Sheila, "See you at the party, then."
"Good-O, darling," Sheila said, already back at her work.
As they started down the corridor, redundant with art as everywhere
in the Palazzo Colonna, Lee said, touching her hair, "Believe it if you will
but it's my own and I do it myself."
"It's lovely," Lily told her and giggled. "You should have been at
tüepartous last night. You would have been the hit."
Lee made a moue. "Group sex turns me off," she said.
The other looked at her from the side of her eyes. "I'm surprised that
Sheila is taking you for her secretary then."
Lee shrugged. "It was rather thrown at me, without my having much to
say about it, though frankly, this whole World Club thing has its
fascinating aspects."
"Oh, it's the most wizard job you can imagine. You're right in the
middle of the most important goings on in the world. You're really on
the inside."
Lee said idly, "Whatever happened to Pamela, the girl I'm taking over
from?"
"I don't know. She was awfully nice. Kind of a little serious, even more
dedicated than most. Irish, and she still talked with that soft brogue
they have."
"What was her last name?"
"McGivern. She wouldn't take anything from anybody, not even Sheila.
They'd argue hammer and tongs."
"Maybe that's why Sheila let her go."
The little girl was silent for a moment, as they rounded a turn in the
wide corridor. Then she said quietly, "Sheila never fires you from any
of these jobs. She might transfer you to some other position,
somewhere else. But she'll never fire you."
"Why not?"
The other wasn't quite happy at the question. "Well, I suppose if the
computers selected you in the first place, you have more than usual
ability, and the Central Committee doesn't want to waste it. Besides…"
she hesitated for a moment "… you're in on so many top-secret matters
that they wouldn't like you to blab them around." She rolled her eyes.
"I can just see somebody who once worked for the Central Committee
sitting down and writing a book about it."
Lee thought about that. She already had several new things to think
about this morning. For one, she had gotten the damnedest impression
that Sheila had already known about the attack on Jerry Auburn
before she had told her. But then, it was Sheila's job to know
everything that happened pertaining to the Central Committee
members.
Lily brought them up to an imposing door, similar to that which opened
into Sheila Duff-Roberts's salon. Once again, there was no identity
screen. She knocked briskly, then reached down for the bright brass
knob.
She smiled brightly at Lee, said, "See you later, dear," turned and
tripped briskly away.
Lee entered, closing the door behind her. She blinked in surprise at the
large room's decor. She had stepped from a Roman Renaissance
corridor into a chamber which should have been eight thousand miles
away, in a Chinese palace or mansion of the Ming dynasty. One had no
doubts whatsoever that all of the exquisite furnishings, all of the art,
and even the rugs, were genuine antiques. The whole room belonged in a
Chinese museum.
There were two occupants—an old man behind an intricately carved
ebony desk, and a girl, certainly not over twenty, wearing a sleek, long,
yellow, high-collared cheong-sam. She was kneeling upon a dais, plucking
a thin Mandarin melody from a jong resting on the floor before her.
Her slim fingers played over the instrument as though caressing a lover.
The old man was frail with a wisp of a white beard and a bald head
poised forward on his long neck with great natural dignity and grace. He
wore the red-tasseled, crystal-topped cap and the navy-blue gown of
the scholar.
Lee said formally, after bowing, "May I trouble your chariot? My name
is Lee Garrett."
His aged eyes took her in for a moment, then the slightest of smiles
appeared on his yellowish parchment face. "My chariot is untroubled.
Pray take an honored chair."
"I am totally unworthy."
"The unworthiness is mine," he told her. "My office is favored by your
visit."
Lee sat across the desk from him and said, "It is a poor woman's
delight."
"The office shrinks in humble shame before your footsteps." Fong Hui
shook hands with himself, keeping his delicately tapered fingers well
within his long loose sleeves.
The Chinese girl who had been playing the jong stood and trotted
toward a rear door. She turned without speaking, bobbed several bows,
and left.
Fong took Lee in again, the faint smile still in his eyes. "I suspect that
you would have been capable of going through the formal greeting of
years past in the original Mandarin."
Lee Garrett acknowledged the compliment. "Only awkwardly, Mr. Fong.
My father was a diplomat. When I was a young girl he was stationed for
two years in the People's Republic in Peking. He was an ardent linguist
and always insisted that the family study the language of the nation to
which we were posted."
"Such talents will be welcome in the position Ms. Duff-Roberts tells me
you are to occupy." He smiled faintly again and let his eyes go about the
room. "Undoubtedly, you are surprised at both my office and my
attire."
"I have always been a great admirer of the art and culture of the
Celestial Empire, Mr. Fong."
His thin voice held a touch of exasperation. "And I have long been
displeased by the increasing domination of the Western culture. But I
wage a losing battle. The culture of the West sweeps everything before
it—its modes of dress, its food, its manners and mores. An accident of
history gave the European and North American powers domination over
the world for at least the present, so that the habits of the West have
prevailed to the detriment of other cultures, not neces-sarily inferior.
As to dress, without doubt the Chinese cheong-sam and the Indian sari
are far more flattering to the feminine figure than the awkward garb
of Europe. And throughout the world now, all cities are beginning to
look like Cleveland, Ohio, while such architectural gems as Angkor Wat
in Cambodia and Kyoto in Japan are now no longer anything but museums
on a grand scale."
Lee said, "I agree with you, Mr. Fong. Even Rome now has its seven hills
surrounded by sky-high condominiums and high-rise apartment buildings
for the antlike existence of the proles, the slums of the welfare
state."
He was obviously enjoying her company. "My dear," he said, "you seem
wise beyond your years. Perhaps some evening, after adjusting to your
new atmosphere, you will honor me with your presence at dinner. My
chef is from Shanghai."
"I am overwhelmed, Mr. Fong. I consider Chinese cuisine the world's
finest."
The old man touched his wisp of white beard and said, "And now, my
dear, tell me: what are your impressions of the World Club?"
She said hesitantly, "I am somewhat overwhelmed. Its scope is much
greater than I had thought. I am inclined to wonder whether it has
bitten off more than it can chew. The problems seem insoluble to me."
He nodded. "When I was a boy, confronted with my youthful unsolvable
problems and in despair, my father once said, 'What were you worrying
about last year at this date?' And I saw on reflection that all my
unsolvable problems of that time had, indeed, been solved or lost
relevancy. The same might be said to apply to the long-range troubles
of man. This is the year 2086. What were our difficulties one century
ago in 1986? In those days, savants were aghast at the world's
problems; surely they would never be solved. But let us ask the question
again. Suppose that an American in the year 1986 was to look back a
century to 1886 and consider the problems of that time. The Indian
Wars were not quite over; Custer's forces had been destroyed only ten
years before and Geronimo had kept the Southwest in a state of siege.
Labor troubles were paramount, the anarchists at their peak. The
Haymarket bombing killed seven, wounded sixty. The
American Federation of Labor was not yet strong. America was in an
unprecedented state of growing pains. The robber barons of industry
were taking over the country wholesale. Immigrants were swarming in
to the point where nearly half of New York City couldn't speak English,
to the dismay of the earlier-arrived Anglo-Saxons."
Lee laughed softly. "I see what you mean. By 1986, the problems of
1886 had all been solved, or disappeared. And so, is your suggestion, will
be the problems of our time by 2186."
He smiled in return but then became more serious. "Tell me, my dear,
what do you think of our Sheila Duff-Roberts?"
She said carefully, "I don't know her very well as yet. She seems very
capable."
The old man nodded. "I am afraid that she is too prone to take on
authority which should remain in the hands of the Central Committee,
with the assistance of its candidate members, though I defer to the
majority in retaining her as secretary." He hesitated. "Nor do I think
that she should participate in the sometimes differing currents of the
World Club."
He must have caught the puzzlement in her eyes and said in amusement,
"Did you think that all was accord in the Central Committee, my dear?
Happily, it is not. If it were, I myself would withdraw. A frozen
program is seldom a valid one, certainly not over a period of time. It
was one of the prime weaknesses of the Marxists back in the 19th and
20th centuries. Marx and Engels did their work as early as the first
part of the 19th century. Their Communist Manifesto, written in 1848,
predicted an imminent breakdown of capitalism and a proletarian
victory. A century later, the capitalist system had changed and was
stronger than ever. Marx and Engels had died, but most of the so-
called Marxists continued to follow them as though no changes in
political economy had taken place; as though such developments as
fascism and the state capitalism of the Soviet Union had never raised
their ugly heads. At any rate, there are conflicting opinions in the
Central Committee of the World Club and I, to a degree, welcome them.
When two minds meet, both learn something. An Einstein cannot meet
with a moron and exchange opinions without both learning something—
however little." The American girl said, "But what are these
differences in opinion? I had gathered from Sheila and Jerry Auburn
that the goal of the World Club is world government."
He smiled his little smile again. "It is, but there can be varied types of
world government. So you have met our debonair Jeremiah Auburn. He
is a young man with depths not immediately perceived by some. Indeed,
there was considerable difficulty in nominating him to the Central
Committee. However, his father before him was a member and such, ah,
old-timers as myself and Grace Cabot-Hudson were adamant in vouching
for him. The three of us have similar views pertaining to the nature of
the world state to come. We had hopes that Candidate Harold
Dunninger, who also had somewhat similar views, would replace her upon
her retirement. Unfortunately, he was recently murdered by the
Nihilists. Opposed to our view are John Moyer of the American IABI
who, I suspect, sees the future government as a police state, and
Harrington Chase, with his strong racist beliefs, who undoubtedly sees
it as a government of whites over the rest of humanity. Some of the
candidates, such as Lothar von Brandenburg, I am sure, see the future
government as a dictatorship, while Ezra Hawkins, of the United
Church, probably desires a theocracy. Ah yes, my dear, I am afraid
that there are conflicting currents within the ranks of the World
Club."
Lee said thoughtfully, "I can see that there must be ramifications that
never occurred to me."
The faint sound of a muted gong came from the inner depths of the
apartment and the old man smiled ruefully. "I am afraid that my
physician reminds me that it is time for my nap."
The American girl stood immediately. "I must thank you for wasting so
much of your valuable time on one who is so ignorant of the great
problems resting upon your honorable shoulders."
"The pleasure, my dear, is mine. You are to fill an important post, privy
to the innermost developments of the World Club. One cannot know the
future, but perhaps one day you may even succeed to the position now
occupied by Ms. Sheila Duff-Roberts."
Lee bowed formally, said, "With your permission, Mr. Fong," and turned
and left.
Behind her, Fong Hui sighed softly. Old his clay might be, but he still
had an eye for a superlatively pretty girl.
Lee Garrett puzzled out the route to her own suite, only twice losing
her way through the rambling, twisting corridors of the Palazzo
Colonna.
Inside it, she carefully locked the door before going into her small
office. She checked the time on her wrist chronometer, then put her
shoulder bag on the desk top. She activated a secret compartment in
the leather purse and brought forth from it a device like a ballpoint
stylo. She pressed a stud on its side and began moving slowly about the
room, pointing the gadget here, there, and particularly in the vicinity of
electronic devices such as the TV phone.
After thoroughly going over the office, she returned to the living room
and resumed her activities. As she approached the apartment's second
TV phone, sitting on a small table against a wall, her device began to
buzz faintly. Her eyes widened in suspicion and she approached closer.
The buzzing increased. She nodded to herself and then continued about
the room. She finished the living room and continued her task in both
the bedroom and the bath, but she found no more electronic bugs. She
deactivated her device, returned to her office, and replaced it in her
shoulder bag, extracting from the same secret compartment another
device. She also took up her pocket transceiver.
She went back to the living room on her way, pulling a thin antenna from
its place in the flat metallic box of her device, which looked something
like a small cigarette case. She placed it next to the TV phone and
pressed a stud. It began to hum faintly.
She sat down on the couch, turned on her transceiver, flicked the
scrambler button, and dialed.
The answering voice came almost immediately.
Lee said hurriedly, "I'll have to make this quick. There's a bug in my
suite. I have the muffler on but heaven knows what would happen if
some monitor was checking manually. So, briefly, everything is going
better than we could have dreamed of. I am the Secretary of Sheila
Duff-Roberts, the secretary of the Central Committee. I am meeting
the ten members, one by one by one. So far, I have found more division
among them than we had known. Grace Cabot-Hudson is to be replaced;
the Graf and the Prophet are top contenders for her position. Both will
add to the extremist element in the Committee."
A thin, faraway voice spoke from the transceiver.
Then she said hurriedly, "I must go. There is to be a parry tonight
which I'll attend. Meanwhile, check this, if you can. A Pamela McGivern,
an Irish girl, was the former holder of my job. I don't know what
happened to her but I was indirectly informed today that once one
takes a job this close to the Central Committee one doesn't quit.
Obvious question: where is the McGivem girl?"
The voice spoke again.
And Lee said, "I'll be very careful. I'm a little afraid."
She switched off the transceiver, hurried over to the muffler and
deactivated it as well, then took it back into the office and hid it again.
Chapter Eighteen: Jeremiah Auburn
It soon came to Lee Garrett, when she attended the party in the
ballroom of the Palazzo Colonna, why Sheila Duff-Roberts's position
was so important. The Committee itself was undoubtedly the most
informal presiding body of a large and influential organization of which
she had never heard. Sheila's office held it all together. Present at the
get-together were nine of the ten Central Committee members, about a
score of candidate members, and another score or so of prominent
supporters and employees of the World Club who had not as yet
attained Central Committee rank, but were knowledgeable of its secret
nature and headed various of the foundations, research groups,
pressure groups, and lobbies. All were in formal dress but that was as
near as Lee could see to it being a formal affair. She would have called
it a cocktail party, at most. The buffet was one of the most elaborate
she had ever seen, and Lee Garrett had attended many an embassy
affair. There were tobacco fumes in the air as well as those of
cannabis.
Men predominated by far. She noticed a dozen other women, most in
their middle years, and most gave the impression of being the wives of
male members. One wore a golden Indian sari but otherwise all were
gowned most expensively in the latest styles. Two of the men wore
Arab garb, but all the rest were in European dress, though at least half
were of dark complexion, including one very black man who, unlike the
others, didn't seem at ease in his black tie and tails. For a moment, as
she surveyed them, she wondered about the conservatism in men's
dress. Formal attire had changed precious little since the days of
Abraham Lincoln. Sports and daily wear, yes; evening wear, no. A guest
at a reception given by
Woodrow Wilson probably wouldn't have looked out of place here
tonight.
When she first entered there were as many servants present as
guests, tending bar and the buffet, carrying drinks and canapes,
running the errands waiters run. But very shortly after she arrived
they seemed magically to disappear, to her surprise. Then the
realization came: those present were not in a position to be overheard.
For the balance of the evening, the guests helped themselves to the
buffet and the abundant drinks at the two bars.
She recognized only a few people—Sheila Duff-Roberts, of course, and
Jerry Auburn, and Fong Hui, who inclined his bald head in salutation
when their eyes met. Across the room was Nils Norden, an
unconventionally jovial Swede who had been pointed out to her though
thus far they hadn't met.
No, this was no formal party; merely a get-together of the bigwigs of
the World Club. They stood or sat about the ballroom of the
renaissance palace chatting, arguing, debating; sometimes friendly,
sometimes in heat, and in groups of anywhere from two to eight. Most
seemed to make a policy of circulating around, joining one conversation
for a time, then drifting on to another individual or group.
Sheila had suggested Lee's presence as an opportunity to meet not only
other members of the Central Committee but the other influentials of
the World Club as well. For the moment, she didn't quite know where or
how to begin. But then, from across the room, Jerry Auburn waved to
her. He was standing with Sheila Duff-Roberts, who was dressed in a
stunning, bright-blue evening gown which surely must have been
designed with only her in mind. With them was a stranger who bore a
fragile handkerchief with which he daintily touched his lips after each
sip at the champagne he carried.
Lee approached hesitantly, wondering if the wave had meant she was to
join them, and Jerry beamed at her. He held a highball glass in hand
and, by the darkness of its contents, it was either straight spirits or
nearly so. His shining eyes and flushed face indicated that the drink
probably wasn't his first.
When she came up to the others, Jerry waved his glass in a gesture of
welcome and said, "Honey, meet Carlo Brentanto.
Carlo, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila's new secretary. A knockout, which
you wouldn't recognize, though Sheila does."
Sheila, who had a brandy glass in hand, murmured throat-ily, "You look
stunning in that gown, darling."
Carlo Brentanto said, in almost a lisp, "Incantato," and bowed over Lee's
hand gallantly.
Jerry said, "Carlo's been explaining that the gays should inherit the
Earth."
"Certainly, they should have a greater say in its governing," the Italian
told him coolly. "After all, my dears, they have been outstanding
throughout history. It is ridiculous that there isn't a single homosexual
in the Central Committee."
Jerry took a pull at his drink and said, "Well, we have our imposing
Sheila.'' Sheila snorted.
"Over and over, the homosexual has proven himself down through
history," Carlo argued, after daintily sipping. "Can you think of anyone
more outstanding in the military and in government than Alexander the
Great, Caesar, Frederick the Great, and many more prominent than
Plato? Man has reached his heights when the homosexual was most
widely understood— The Golden Age of Athens; the Renaissance here in
Italy."
"Tolerated, but not exactly in power," Jerry said. "Off hand, the only
governments I can think of that were ruled by the gays were Sodom
and Gomorrah—and they came to a fiery end."
"I've always wondered what it was they did in Gomorrah," Lee
murmured.
"You name it, they did it," said Jerry. Sheila gave her curt little laugh
and said, "I'm gratified to see you have a sense of humor, darling."
The Italian fluttered the hand bearing his handkerchief and said, "Oh,
all of you are quite hopeless. I think I shall go over and join the
admiral."
"I have no doubt you'll try," Sheila purred. He left and the three of
them looked after him for a moment.
Jerry said, "How in the hell did he ever get into the candidate class?"
"Actually, he's quite brilliant and the Brentantos are the wealthiest
family in Italy," Sheila told him. "What was it you wanted to talk to me
about, Jerry, before he interrupted us?"
He finished his drink and said, "Oh, yes. When I asked you yesterday
what had happened to Pamela McGivern you said that I'd undoubtedly
hear later. I haven't. In fact, I've asked a couple of the Committee and
none of them seem to know, though Chase managed to mutter that it
was good riddance. I don't believe that our Pamela was capable of
hiding what she thought about his racist leanings."
Sheila said, "She was becoming quite impossible. It's one thing my being
somewhat of a minister without portfolio in the Central Committee, but,
after all, she was only my secretary, and there was no reason for their
putting up with her opinions."
Jerry cocked his eye at her. "Minister without portfolio, eh? I didn't
know that was how you regarded yourself, Sheila. I thought you were
more like a Man Friday. You're sure that you're not beginning to take
on responsibilities beyond those the Committee had in mind?"
Sheila's silent irritation was only partially concealed.
He said, "Now, what happened to Pamela? I, for one, liked the girl, and
so did Fong Hui, among others."
"I dismissed her, giving her a bonus of fifty thousand psuedo-dollars."
"Without consulting anyone, eh?"
"I didn't think it necessary. After all, she was my secretary. I
originally employed her on my own, without consulting anyone."
"What happened to her? Where is she now?"
Sheila frowned slightly. "I wouldn't know. Perhaps she returned to
Ireland."
"Perhaps," he said. He looked at Lee. "Neither of us has a drink. Should
we go on over to the bar and remedy that situation?"
"Thank you," Lee said, and turned her eyes questioningly to her
superior.
Sheila did her bleak smile and said, "Run along, dear, and do meet as
many of those present as you can. You'll be working with all of them
later."
Jerry took Lee by the arm and led her to one of the bars which had
been set up in the ballroom, immediately across from the buffet tables.
For the moment, it was unoccupied.
He dropped the curt air he had assumed with Sheila Duff-Roberts and
said, "What will it be—champagne? One of the candidates has his own
vineyard near Rheims. He provides us with the best vintages."
"That will be fine, Mr. Auburn."
"Jerry," he told her. "I'll stick to cognac."
There was a long row of ice buckets, each with a bottle of sparkling
wine. He selected one which had already been opened, took up a clean
glass and poured for her, then took up a half-empty bottle of
impressive-looking brandy and renewed his own glass with a generous
charge. She had been right. Save for two ice cubes, he was drinking his
spirits straight. Lee winced at the idea of putting ice in good cognac.
She said, "Cheers," and sipped at her wine. It was certainly as good as
any she had ever tasted.
A small, thin, slightly hawk-nosed, dignified elderly man came up and
poured himself a glut of sherry. He nodded at Jerry and looked
questioningly at Lee.
Jerry said, "Mendel, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila's new secretary. She's
a bit bewildered, undoubtedly because she didn't know the Central
Committee was composed of such far-out folk. Lee, this is Mendel
Amschel, a Committee member and once my father's closest friend."
"I'm charmed, my dear," the newcomer said, taking her hand. "I don't
know why, but one never expects surpassing beauty in a girl who must
also be surpassingly intelligent and competent."
"Why, you old goat," Jerry protested. "I saw her first."
Lee was fully aware of the identity of Mendel Amschel, reputedly the
head of the richest bank in Common Europe, although his name seldom
appeared in the news.
"You flatter me, Jerry," the older man said, smiling gently at the girl.
"However, if I were twenty years younger…"
"You'd still be sixty," Jerry said. "You dreamer."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Lee protested. "Isn't the Code Duello still
legal in Italy? If you must fight over me…"
"Right," Jerry said. "The bois at dawn. I'll get Peter Windsor to second
for me. I see him over there, talking to the Archbishop. Competent man
in a fight, I understand, but don't turn your back on him. You might get
a knife in it, even though you thought he was on your side."
The banker raised his eyebrows at the younger man. "I suspect when it
comes to a vote to replace our Grace Cabot-Hudson, you are not likely
to opt for the Graf."
Jerry said testily, "I doubt if the original founders of the World Club
ever expected professional killers to be represented in the Central
Committee."
"I discussed it with Harrington," the other said. "He pointed out that
most of the former mercenary activities of Lothar von Brandenburg are
now becoming phased out, but that there will always be a need for
espionage and, ah, strong men even in a World State."
Jerry dismissed that opinion. "It's true mercenaries are on the wane.
Wizard. But the Graf is expanding into other lines. Personal
assassination hasn't been so prevalent since the days of the Borgias.
He's simply computerized it."
The Viennese banker scowled at him questioningly. "Isn't that largely a
matter of gossip and rumor? Every homicide in the world is being laid at
the door of the mysterious Graf."
"Yes." Jerry looked thoughtful. "And that reminds me. I wanted to see
Peter Windsor and ask about the death of Harold Dunninger. He's the
one I would have voted for to take over Grace's seat on the Committee,
rather than either the Prophet or the Graf."
"So would I have, my boy," Amschel said. "But the Nihilists, who seem
daily to become more bold, got through his defenses."
"I wonder," Jerry said. "At any rate, I want to talk with Windsor. You
two get to know each other; see you later."
When the younger man had gone, Amschel sighed and said, "Our Jerry
Auburn is considerably different than I remember his father." He
smiled slightly. "Perhaps it is the generation gap, after all. I was
Fredric Auburn's contemporary. Jerry seems a bit precipitous. I wince
at his confrontation with the Graf's representative." He turned his
eyes from the retreating Jerry and brought them back to Lee. "I
imagine everyone is asking you what you think of the World Club."
"Well, yes," she told him carefully. "My first reaction is that the
Central Committee's plans seem to be somewhat premature, though I
support them. Is the world ready for a universal government?"
"Ready or not," he said with a touch of resignation in his voice, "it is the
only answer. Today, the world is on the precipice of disaster. What is
the old Britishism? The chickens have come home to roost. The slowly
developing problems of the past three centuries have now reached a
head."
Lee demurred. "Oh, come now, the world is comparatively dormant at
present. There are no real immediate crises. We haven't known a major
war within the lives of anyone now living."
He shook a thin finger at her. "My dear, it is astonishing how quickly
matters can develop when conditions are ripe. Consider the spring of
1914 when everything seemed stable. The Kaiser was securely on his
throne, Franz Joseph of the Austro-Hungarian Empire on his, the
Sultan ruled the powerful Ottoman Empire, and the Czar of all the
Russias had recently celebrated the 300th anniversary of Romanoff
rule. Five years later, there was no major monarchy in Europe save
England, and capitalism itself had collapsed in Russia, the largest nation
of the world. No, my dear, comparatively overnight, world institutions
can radically alter, given the right, or perhaps I should say the wrong,
conditions."
She took a full lower lip between perfect white teeth. Then, "And you
think such conditions exist today?"
"Yes." He looked about. "Come, my dear, let us find a place to sit down.
My friend Fong Hui tells me you are an interesting young woman.
Frankly, I was sorry to see Pamela McGivern leave, but if it was
necessary at least we seem to have found a competent replacement.
Would you like me to fill your glass?"
"No," she said. "No, I have plenty." She followed him to a fifteenth-
century couch set against one of the large chamber's walls. When they
were seated she said, "And what do you foresee in the nature of this
new World State? What kind of government will it be? I get the
impression that there is considerable difference on this among Central
Committee members."
He conceded the validity of that. "Yes, there is. Some of us wish to
continue the type of democracy that now prevails in the United States
of the Americas."
She sipped again at her wine, frowning slightly. "You advocate a two-
party democracy with both of the parties controlled by a power elite?"
He smiled his little dry smile again. "Yes. I am a product of my class and
my age. My class owns the so-called Western world. 1 believe that they
should govern it. Benevolently, of course, and maintaining all the
liberties that man has achieved. Perhaps half of the Central Committee
and even more of the candidate members concur."
"And the ordinary citizens, including the proles: they are still to have
the vote?"
"Yes, of course, my dear. Why not? It keeps them happy to think that
they have the ultimate say. Every four years we put up two candidates
and let them take their pick. What could be more democratic than
that? You must realize that even at the height of the Empire, the
Roman proletariat had the vote. They usually sold it to the highest
bidder, of course, but they had it. The proles, my dear, we shall always
have with us. They are the masses who labor at the undesirable jobs
when labor is needed, or fight as common soldiers in times of war. They
are the nonentities. The world has passed them by. A typical example is
the peons of Latin America, now assimilated into the United States of
the Americas. Uneducated, untrained, they were pushed from a burro
society into one of electronic computers. They won't adjust, nor will
their children. Like the Roman proletariat, they must simply be fed and
otherwise taken care of by the state, as cheaply and efficiently as
possible, and forgotten about."
"But there are exceptions among them. There surely are many
exceptions."
"Of course, and they must be found and encouraged. Thomas Edison
was born in poverty and had only about three years of grammar school.
But he was a genius. Andrew Carnegie came to America as an immigrant
and fought his way upward into the highest ranks of the powerful. Oh
yes, there are many exceptions. The ancestor of Harrington Chase who
founded the Chase fortune was an oilfield worker in Texas."
Lee shook her head and put her empty glass down on a small table
beside the couch. "I had always thought the
World Club to be composed largely of economists whose research was
supported by wealthy philanthropists."
The international banker was obviously amused. "Don't exaggerate the
contributions of economists, my dear. They are highly overrated
compared to us, the pragmatic. If there was ever a group to which the
question, 'If you're so smart, why aren't you rich?' applies, it is the
economists. Economics aren't as complicated as all that but the
economists tny-thologize the subject. There are exceptions, but most
of them go through life as second-raters—teaching, writing books that
few read and even fewer understand, or selling their services to
governments or the powerful. They make their way with gobbledy-gook
terminology, but practically never do they get rich. Even a five-percent
advantage on knowing what way the stock market was going to go would
make them wealthy, but they simply don't know. Karl Marx himself,
that analyzer of the capitalist system, lived and died in poverty. Did
you ever hear of a Rockefeller, a Dupont, a Getty, or any other founder
of the great American fortunes, who was an economist?"
Lee's smile was inverted. "I am afraid that you are making a cynic of
me, Mr. Amschel."
The smile he returned was thin. "I hope not, my dear. You are far too
charming to succumb to cynicism. However, take as an example the
monetary crisis of the last century. Every economist in the world was
working on the problem of the collapse of international money. There
was not enough gold or any other precious metal in the world to back
the needed mediums of exchange. All nations, particularly your United
States, simply began printing paper money, which had no value since it
represented nothing. Inflation was rampant. Inflation, of course, is not
a matter of prices going up, but of the value of money going down. The
United States, with a two trillion dollar a year economy, faced disaster
because it had issued perhaps four hundred billion dollars' worth of
paper without backing. Did the economists solve the problem? No. It
was solved by an obscure speculative writer."
"I didn't know that!"
"Oh, yes. He proposed that the government, in taxing the two hundred
top corporations of the United States, take ten percent of the taxes in
the form of their common stock. This was amalgamated into what was
called United States Basic
Common, a sort of gigantic mutual fund. Its shares, of course, paid
dividends based on the combined dividends of the corporations. The
stock was placed on every stock exchange of the world to seek its level.
Each year, the government added its new common stock, taken in the
form of taxes, to its U. S. Basic Common. Anyone who had dollars could
turn them in for Basic Common. In short, the money of the United
States, now called pseudo-dollars since there was no gold behind them,
was now backed by the American economy." The banker made a little
snort. "It wasn't long before all other developed nations followed the
lead. The world now has valid currencies."
Halfway across the room, Jerry Auburn was interrupted on his way to
seeing Peter Windsor.
Harrington Chase, his inevitable glass of bourbon and branch water in
hand, waved him down. The American tycoon was a stereotype of the
cattleman or oil entrepreneur who had flourished in the old Southwest.
He differed little if at all from his progenitors. A Henry Ford or a Joe
Kennedy might have come from rough-and-ready, tough-and-tight-eyed
schools, but in two generations their descendants were attending Ivy
League universities and had become ladies and gentlemen who
conducted themselves as aristocrats—America's new nobility. But not
the Chases! Harrington Chase's fief was a ranch enveloping two large
counties overlapping in Texas and Oklahoma, larger than the areas of
several northeastern states. Big and ruddy of face, his bulk no longer
called for his riding his famed Palominos, but he usually still affected
riding boots. And a king-sized cigar, even when police were in the
vicinity, was always in his mouth. He also, Jerry knew, invariably
ordered steak and potatoes, in the most celebrated restaurants, with
apple pie and ice cream for dessert.
With Chase, as usual at a Central Committee session, was his closest
associate, John Warfield Moyer, for some twenty years Director of
the IABI. A square-cut man in his late fifties, Moyer, with his bulldog
face, shaggy brows, and cold, accusing eyes, looked every inch what he
was: a high-ranking police officer. In his case, the highest ranking in
the world.
Chase said, with an overriding joviality, "Hold on, Jerry, old-timer.''
Jerry Auburn came to a halt, albeit reluctantly. "Something up, Harry?"
He knew perfectly well the other hated that name. He nodded at
Moyer. "Hi, Fuzzy," he said, inwardly pleased at the director's wince.
Harrington Chase hefted his glass up and down a couple of times
pontifically. "We've been mulling over the replacement of Grace Cabot-
Hudson, now that she's let it be known she's resigning."
Jerry said, "I had been inclined to Dunninger… until somebody got to
him."
"Never cottoned much to Harold myself," Chase said pompously. "Kind
of a goddamned liberal. Show me a liberal and I'll show you a man on
the verge of a coyote Euro-communist. But at least he was a white
American, just like us three."
Moyer looked at Jerry: a policeman's look. "What do you mean,
somebody got to him? Those Nihilist subversives shot him when his
people wouldn't pay the ransom. His wife must have thought they were
bluffing."
"So they say," Jerry nodded. "Which leaves the field more or less left
to Ezra Hawkins and Lothar von Brandenburg, two of the most unlikely
candidates for a seat in the Central Committee I could imagine."
Harrington Chase puffed out his cheeks. "At least the Prophet is a
God-fearing Christian, a white man, and an American. We Americans
ought to stick together. We wouldn't want to see a slant-eye like
lyeyasu Suzuki, or a nigger like Sri Saraswate, on the Committee."
Jerry took him in. "It's never been proven that the Prohpet can read or
write. Supposedly, the top echelons of the World Club are composed of
highly intelligent, well-educated men and women, not superstition-
spouting demagogues."
"Look, boy, us Americans have a manifest destiny to run this world. It's
in the cards. But unless we hold the cards, we'll wind up with the wogs
taking the pot."
The younger man regarded him, doing little to disguise his contempt.
"Harry," he said, "do you realize that half the United States population
is below average in intelligence?"
The billionaire's eyes all but popped in indignation. "That's a damn lie!"
he rumbled.
Jerry shook his head in pretended despair. "Your American chauvinism
does you little credit, Harry. Of course, half of every population is
below average, and the other half above average. What do you think
average means?"
The oilman sputtered, then took a heavy slug of his bourbon.
Moyer said, obviously getting it before his colleague did, "What's that
got to do with the Prophet being elevated to the Central Committee,
Auburn? It seems to me that having a man of God in our number makes
good sense. The fact that the majority of us are among the world's
wealthiest rubs some people the wrong way, especially the liberal
intellectuals. The Prophet heads the biggest church in the world, and
every day it gets larger."
Jerry turned his gaze to the IABI head. "And did it ever occur to you,
as a fuzzy, that the number of crimes in a city each year is proportional
to the number of churches there?"
The other stared at him. "You must be around the corner, Auburn. The
more churches, the less crime."
Jerry shook his head in sorrow. "On the face of it, fuzzy, the larger
the town is, the more churches there are. And the larger a town is, the
more crime there is."
Harrington Chase said angrily, "You're getting away from the point,
Jerry. The point is, we don't want any more kikes like Meyer Amschel in
the Central Committee, and no more chinks like Fong Hui."
Jerry said, "We'll see about that when it comes to the vote, Harry. In
my opinion, Amschel and Fong may be on the oldish side, and overly
conservative, but they're two of the best we've got. And now, excuse
me; I want to have a few words with Windsor. Has it ever occurred to
either of you that the Graf is so afraid of leaving that castle fortress
of his that he always sends a deputy to represent him? What kind of a
Committee member would he make if he never bothered to attend
sessions?"
Before the arrival of Jerry Auburn, Archbishop Willy Beck and Peter
Windsor had been hitting it off jolly well, as the Englishman might have
put it. The Graf's right-hand man, now in impeccable evening wear, was
a far cry from the languid, easygoing young man of the Wolfschloss.
Now, in the view of his peers, he presented himself as the British
aristocrat—straight of posture, clipped of voice. His companion was
dressed in black and wore the reversed collar of clerical tradition. They
were approximately the same age, approximately the same height, but
there the resemblance ended, save for goals. Willy Beck, a lifelong
evangelist who had first taken the stump at revival meetings in the
American Bible Belt at the age of fourteen, had the sanctimonious face
of his trade—long, expressionless, save for a sadness which tugged at
the heartstrings of his feminine followers. Indeed, his face had been
compared to that of Lincoln before the beard. His voice was soft, with
a depth of sorrow similar to that of an undertaker. His railings against
the evils of drink and tobacco were his trademark, which would
undoubtedly have led the faithful to goggle at the Manila cigar he now
held in one hand and the glass of that most delicate though strong of
spirits, Hungarian barack, in the other.
The Archbishop was saying, "Yes, you are quite correct. The Prophet
foresees, once the World State has come to power, the
reestablishment of the Holy Office, the Inquisition— under a more
inspiring name, of course. Heretics must be rooted out. At this point it
is quite impossible, but once the United Church has become the State
Church of the World Government, matters will be different. Since the
days of Socrates the organized religions have found that to be the
ultimate truth. But now, at this point, we must rely on other means to
confound our Godless opponents, and that is why the Prophet sees the
need for greater cooperation between our two organizations."
Peter Windsor said, sipping at his Scotch, "You put it most
interestingly, Your Excellency. In what manner do you think the United
Church could be of use to us?"
"In most of the present-day branches of the United Church, my son, we
follow the rite of confession. Perhaps a judicious leader might be
reluctant to reveal his secrets, but often the same restraint does not
apply to his more devout wife. It is astonishing, the information that is
revealed in the confessional booth, especially if encouraged by a
trained confessor— information that would be priceless to an
organization involved in espionage."
"Bloody marvelous," Peter Windsor said, lost in admiration of the
possibilities. "And in return?"
The Archbishop's face was sad. "Alas, my son, in this sin-ridden world
the true faith often has what would seem insurmountable obstacles
raised by the followers of the Adversary. Such enemies of the United
Church would feel the wrath of the heavens. Who knows what might
befall a strong official of some false faith who exhorts his fellows to
refrain from cooperation with our Holy cause…"
"Chaps such as the Mahdi, I wouldn't wonder," Peter said.
"Indeed. Our sainted leader, Ezra Hawkins, spent long hours in prayer
before coming to the reluctant decision to remove this limb of Satan
from the scene, so that his deluded followers might at long last see the
true path to salvation."
"Long hours in prayer?" Peter said musingly. "I say, do you chaps really
find time for that sort of drill?"
Willy Beck sighed. "Peter, sometimes I am inclined to think that Ezra
takes himself a bit too literally in his role of Prophet. It does not do
for a religious man, or a politician, to believe too much in his own
propaganda. The more one knows his religion the less he believes, if he
is a pragmatic man."
Peter accepted that, pursing his lips. "However, the Prophet is, shall we
say, no longer young. And history tells us that it is often a devoted
follower of a great prophet who finally witnesses the flowering of the
new religion. It was not Jesus who founded Christianity as we know it,
but Paul. And Mohammed never saw Islam spread beyond Arabia. It was
the second-generation Moslems who conquered half the known world."
"A point well taken, my son. And who can tell what the good Lord has
planned for the future. But tell me, how is the health of the Graf these
days?"
The Englishman shook his head regretfully. "I am afraid that Lothar is
aging rather rapidly, don't you know? Sometimes he seems to make
rather ill-considered decisions."
Archbishop Beck shook his head, also in sorrow. "Not long for this
world, then. However, undoubtedly, when he goes to his reward there
will be more youthful hands to take the reins of his worthy
organization."
Peter Windsor fixed his green eyes on the other man's face for a long
calculating moment before he said, "Perhaps we should talk this over in
more detail in the near future. I suspect that matters are coming to a
head faster than some of us realize."
It was then that Jerry Auburn came up, recently refilled glass in hand,
dark blue eyes with a faint glaze. He said, not quite slurring, "Hi, Peter.
Done in any poor cloddies of recent date? Hi, Willy, saved any good
souls lately?"
"All souls are good, my son," the Archbishop said unctuously.
"You ought to know; you must get a wide variety of them. The United
Church will take anything into its ranks, down to and including animists."
The Archbishop was sadly forgiving. He said softly, "In my Father's
house there are many mansions. We are all one in the loving eyes of
God, be he called Jehovah, Allah, Brahma, Maya, or The Great Spirit."
Jerry said, taking another healthy pull at his drink, "Or Artemis and
Pan, for the sake of the various witch cults. You'll adapt to anything to
suck another faith into the United Church. If the Aztec religion was
still in existence, you'd allow them to cut out the hearts of a few
thousand victims each year. If the Canaanites were still with us, they
could throw their firstborn into the flaming bronze maw of Ba'al."
"Surely, my son, this is not a subject upon which to jest." There was
sorrow in the voice of the Prophet's right-hand man, but his eyes were
narrow and cold.
"I wasn't kidding," Jerry said. "The archives don't record what long-
dead con man first dreamed up religion and put nine-tenths of the
human race on the sucker list, but he must have been a genius."
The Archbishop said, his long face expressionless, "I am neglecting my
duties as the representative of a candidate member of the Central
Committee. I must pay my respects to Harrington Chase. His devotion
to the United Church is well known; only last week he contributed a
million pseudo-dollars. If you'll forgive me."
When he was gone, Jerry said to Peter Windsor, "I hate to see you two
getting together."
Peter said, "Oh, Willy's all right. I assume that most of us in the World
Club are either agnostics or atheists, but we'll always have religion with
us, and I'd rather see the United Church on our side than have it
oppose us."
"Sometimes I wonder what our side is," Jerry said. He fixed his eyes on
the tall Britisher. "Have you heard about the attack on me yesterday?"
The other looked worried. "Yes, I did, Jerry. Jolly good that you were
able to thwart the beggar."
"Yeah, wasn't it? What I've been wondering about was who fingered
me."
"What do you mean, dear boy?"
"I mean that it seems unlikely that cloddy went to all the trouble to get
a job at the Hostaria dell'Orso just to take a crack at the first
wealthy customer to come along. If he had, he would have polished
someone else off long before I arrived on the scene. It's the most
expensive restaurant in town and there's a fistful of millionaires and
top politicians there every day. No, he was waiting for me. Somebody
had tipped the Nihilists off that it was my favorite eating spot. I'd
just got in to Rome the same day. And he was waiting."
Peter looked distressed. "What's your point, old chap?"
"All of a sudden, the Nihilists seem to be taking an extraordinary
interest in members and candidate members of the Central Committee.
It was only a few days ago that Harry Dunninger was knocked off by
them, back in the States. If he hadn't been, sure as hell the Central
Committee would have nominated him to full membership. With him
eliminated, it looks as though either the Graf or the Prophet has a
much better chance. If I'd been knocked off, both of them would have
the chance."
"I don't follow you."
"I think you'd better try." Jerry Auburn's eyes had lost their alcohol
sheen and were now very level.
The Englishman shook his head. "Really, old boy, I don't know what
you're talking about."
"Your people had the contract to guard Dunninger. When the Nihilists
raided his estate, four of the guards had been pulled off, weakening
resistance so that overwhelming the defense was a cinch. Now, what I
want to know is what contracts you people have with the Neo-Nihilists."
Peter Windsor flushed in indignation. He said strongly, "Really, Auburn,
your suggestion is inadmissible."
Jerry's voice was winter cold. "I'm asking you if you have contacts with
the Nihilists. If you tell me no, and through my people I later find out
that you have, your organization is mud in the World Club, chum-pal.
Remember that I'm a member of the Central Committee. All by myself
I can blackball the Graf from ever becoming a full member. I think I
could throw enough weight to have him tossed out of the World Club
entirely. And that would hardly fit in with your plans, would it,
Windsor?"
"Now, see here, Jerry," Peter Windsor said hurriedly. "You're getting
off onto the wrong foot. Of course, the Graf has infiltrated the
Nihilists, along with all other subversive organizations. A great deal of
our work is espionage. We infiltrate everywhere, especially into
organizations having any sort of political connotations."
"So, who's your head mole in the Nihilists?"
The other stared at him. "We haven't one. We have several plants
among them but they're not of enough importance for us to go to any
great extent to infiltrate them. It's just a matter of keeping the sods
under observation. Had we gotten news that poor Harold Dunninger was
to be kidnapped, we would have immediately informed him. The Graf,
after all, is a loyal candidate member of the Central Committee."
Jerry Auburn took him in for a long, cold moment. "We'll see about
that," he said. He finished his drink with the stiff-wristed motion of
the practiced drinker, turned on his heel, and headed for the bar,
leaving the Englishman staring after him, boiling anger in his pale killer
eyes.
Lee Garrett gave up at about one o'clock in the morning. She had done
her best to make acquaintances, as ordered by Shelia Duff-Roberts,
and had met perhaps a dozen of the members and candidates. She had
spent the last half hour in the'company of Nils Norden. From what she
had gathered, the Scandinavian tycoon was on the fence so far as the
divisions within the organization were concerned. If Chase and his
colleagues were the right wing of the Committee, and Jerry Auburn was
on the left wing, then Nils Norden must be thought of as the center.
Not that she'd discussed the World
Club with him to any extent. Largely, he seemed interested in
conducting her back to her suite—and to bed.
By this time, she had learned the layout of this part of the Palazzo well
enough that she had no trouble finding her way to her quarters. She
sighed her weariness, kicked off her shoes, picked them up, and headed
for the suite's interior, her bedroom in mind. To get to it, she had to
pass through the living room. She was surprised to find the lights were
on.
Then she spotted Jerry Auburn sprawled on the fifteenth-century
couch, his feet, shoes and all, up on one arm of the priceless antique.
His inevitable glass was on a low table, within easy reach. He looked up
at her.
"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Auburn?"
"Jerry," he said. "If we're to become lovers we must forget
formalities."
"Lovers!" She dropped her shoes onto the floor and slipped her feet
into them. "If you came here to…"
He held up a weary hand. "Please. No indignation. I never rape girls.
I've never had to. In fact, sometimes they rape me."
She snorted and ran her eyes over his sturdy athlete's body. "It'd take
quite a mopsy to rape you, my friend."
"I rape easily—a flaw in my character," he explained, swinging his feet
around and to the floor. "Sit down, Lee. I have something to ask you."
"I'm tired," she said. "I want to go to bed." But she sat, taking one of
the antique chairs, which was more comfortable than it looked. It would
have to be.
"So do I," he told her earnestly. "But we'll get to do that later." He
pointed at the phone, the one she knew was bugged. Her eyes widened
when she saw, sitting next to it, a muffler similar to the one she had
utilized.
"Nobody's listening in," he said, reaching over and picking up his glass.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she got out.
He took back some of his drink. "You know, everybody's been telling me
that this evening," he told her. "Peter Windsor, for instance. However,
you're reporting to someone. Whom? Don't bother to deny it, honey.
We often monitor the quarters of new employees, on the off chance
that they're an attempt to infiltrate the World Club. You'd be
surprised how many elements would like to know its inner workings. By
chance, the monitor in this case is an old family friend, indebted to my
late father. He reports to me first—and sometimes I'm the only one he
reports to. At any rate, honey, he tells me that your bug was muffled
for a time. Obviously he couldn't tell me whom you called, nor what you
said, but he was aware of the muffler. So what is a nice girl like you
doing with a sophisticated piece of electronic equipment and who were
you calling, to report what?"
She glared at him angrily, even while her mind raced. "My mother!" she
got out finally.
He closed his eyes in pain and pushed his left hand over his mouth. "Oh,
come on now, honey."
She said challengingly, "My mother is Rosamond Brice."
He cocked an eye at her. "I know Rosamond Brice. Or did. She doesn't
look old enough to be your mother. And, what's more, she doesn't act
like a mother. She's been in more beds than I've been in automobiles.
And when she comes to town the local distilleries put on an extra
shift."
Lee went to the bar and poured herself a drink from the first bottle
that came to hand. She took down a quick snort and made a face.
Absinthe. She poured some water into it and returned to her chair.
She said defiantly, "My mother and father weren't married, but for a
time they evidently had a somewhat hectic love affair. For some reason,
she agreed to have a baby. By the time I came, the affair was waning.
Mother couldn't bother with me; I interfered with her good times. But
father wanted me and raised me. We loved each other very much.
After he died, I became friends with Rosamond although we're worlds
apart as a rule. When I told her I was to work for the World Club, she
told me that they'd probably bug my rooms and gave me a muffler so
that we could talk without being overheard. She knew about mufflers
because she always uses one. She's afraid of jealous wives,
sweethearts, or whoever, listening in on her calls to lovers."
He looked at her for a long disbelieving moment.
She came to her feet and said, "Oh, hell; come on. I suppose this was
inevitable."
"Come on where?" he said.
"To the bedroom. I'm going to rape you a little."
Chapter Nineteen: Roy Cos
Roy dreaded getting up, but that feeling of dread was now a daily
occurrence. He couldn't bring himself to face the Coming day. How long
had it been now—a couple of weeks? More than that. At least he was
giving the bastards a run for their money. One of the newsmen had told
them that Oliver Brett-James, in Nassau, had been fired by the outfit
issuing the Deathwish Policy Roy had signed up for. Evidently, the
cosmo-corp's executives blamed the Englishman for not spotting
potential trouble in the offbeat Roy Cos and his manager. Long before
this, they had begun losing money on the deal. Not only were the
premiums eating them up, but the so-called Deathwish Wobbly was
spending his million pseudo-dollars per day at an unprecedented rate.
How many people did he have on his payroll now? Over twenty, Roy
supposed, counting the stenographers down in the offices on the floor
below—a payroll of more than two hundred thousand pseudo-dollars a
day! If he wasn't feeling so damned depressed, he might have laughed.
Imagine Roy Cos spending over a million a week on his staff.
Mary Ann, on the pillow next to him, said, doing her best to keep the
anxiety from her voice, "Something wrong, darling?"
He looked over at her. Mousy of face, Mary Ann Elwyn might be, but a
mouse of very special attractions. It was the first time in his life that
he'd had a deep involvement that went beyond mere sex.
"No, not really," he told her.
She looked at her wrist chronometer. "You're supposed to hear that
Tri-Di singer this morning for the United Church broadcast."
"Yeah," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "What was his name again?"
"Stevie Summers. He's the current big thing in nostalgia folk song
revivals."
Roy sighed and said, "How's Forry getting along with the hotel
manager?"
She laughed shortly. "He's reversed the flow of crap, you might say.
The first few days, guests were moving out wholesale when it was
learned that the Deathwish Wobbly was staying here. Evidently, they
expected the whole New Tropical Hotel to be bombed flat or
something. But that didn't last. Thrill seekers zeroed in wholesale. One
of Ron's friends who works in the lobby says the manager is turning
down bribes that run up to a thousand pseudo-dollars for reservations.
Same old story—thousands of silly dizzards would give then-right arms
to be on hand when the Graf's men get to you. I mean if," she added
contritely. "Sorry."
He ran a weary hand back through his shaggy, faded brown hair.
"Nothing to be sorry about," he told her. He dug around for something
else to postpone getting out of bed. "How'd that girl check out?"
"The one who got in with the reporters yesterday? She's evidently
what she said she was, a celebrity hound. She wanted to see you in
person, wanted to try to get your autograph. The guards shook her
down just like everybody else and she had nothing remotely resembling
a weapon, so they let her through. Supposedly, she was a reporter."
"If she could get past all of our security, so could somebody else," he
said bitterly.
"We'd better go and check out this Stevie Summers, darling."
"All right." He swung his legs out over the side of the bed. Ignoring his
bedroom slippers, he went over to the chair where he had thrown his
clothes the night before and began to dress. Mary Ann got up too and
went to the closet. The prole clothes she brought forth were as similar
to his own as possible.
She looked over at him. Roy Cos had lost the extra ten pounds or so of
weight and now looked drawn rather than pasty of face. The sunbaths
on the roof, which Forry Brown had insisted upon, had wiped away the
pallor. It came to her that Roy must have been quite good-looking as a
young man. Twenty-five years of inadequate diet and exercise hadn't
done him any good, nor had the long hours of sitting around small, drab
rooms arguing political economy, night after night.
Forty Brown and Ferd Feldmeyer were in the living room with three of
the guards who bore short, stocky Gyrojet automatic carbines. Dick
Samuelson, in particular, carried his with a practiced ease. It had
turned out, when the weapons were first procured, that Dick had spent
a hitch in the Sky-borne Commandos, and he'd taken over the duty of
instructing his less knowledgeable Wobbly colleagues in their use.
Also present was a rather vague-looking young man, somewhere in his
early twenties. He bore a guitar and was looking both impatient and
bored. His fans might have swooned over him, Roy decided, but he
looked like nothing more than a gangly kid.
Forry, dressed identically to Roy, and looking somewhat ludicrous in
prole attire, squinted through tobacco smoke at his employer. He said,
"This is Stevie Summers. I promised him five thousand to sing one song
as a preliminary to you roasting the Prophet."
"It ain't the money," the singer said. "I hate that sapsucker."
Roy nodded, went over to his desk, and took up a little red pamphlet,
thumbed through it to the page he sought, found it, and handed it to
the boy.
"This is a book of old IWW songs," he said. "This is the one I wanted
you to sing. It was written by one of the early Wobblies, Joe Hill, who
was executed in Utah for a crime he didn't commit because he was a
radical. You sing it to the tune for the old hymn, In the Sweet Bye and
Bye.
"Gotcha," the boy said. He looked over the lyrics for a moment, then
began to strum and sing. To Roy's surprise, the singer's voice, though
soft, grasped with appeal.
Long-haired preachers come out every night,
Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right;
But when asked how 'bout something to eat
They will answer with voices so sweet:
You will eat, bye and bye. In that glorious land above the sky;
Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die.
And the starvation army they play. And they sing and they clap and
they pray,
Till they get all your coin on the drum, Then they tell you when you're
on the bum:
You will eat, bye and bye, In that glorious land above the sky;
Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die.
Workingmen of all countries unite.
Side by side we for freedom will fight;
When the world and its wealth we have gained
To the grafters we'll sing this refrain:
You will eat, bye and bye, When you've learned how to cook and to fry
Chop some wood, 'twill do you good, And you'll eat in the sweet bye and
bye. The boy ended with a bang on the strings, looked up and grinned.
"After that, the Prophet'll want to crucify you."
"That's the idea," Roy said. "He's lined up with the other side. We want
to make that clear." He looked at the folk singer. "That old radical song
is kind of primitive as propaganda goes but it won't put you on
anybody's shitlist, will it? The Prophet throws a lot of weight. With me,
it doesn't make any difference. He'll have to stand in line if he wants
to take a crack at me."
Stevie Summers shook his head, "The kids I sing for don't go for this
holy-roller fling. So far as we're concerned, he can bugger himself with
a wood auger. By the way, my old man's a Libertarian. I've heard a
couple of your bleats on Tri-Di. Your two organizations oughta get
together."
"There's been some talk about it," Roy nodded. Forry said, "We better
get ready for that press interview." He took young Summers by the
arm and led him to the door, going over details about the broadcast.
Roy sat down at his desk and looked unhappily at the pile of mail before
him. He thumbed quickly through it. There was nothing from anyone he
knew. All strangers. He said to Mary Ann, "You want to go through this
and spread it around to the girls for the standard answers? By the way,
how come I haven't met any of the stenographers?"
Mary Ann came over from her own desk, carrying a letter. She said,
"Ferry doesn't want them on this floor. Two of them are Wobblies, but
the others are outsiders. For all we know, the Graf might be able to get
next to one of them. It's just as easy for a woman to take a crack at
you as a man."
Roy shook his head but said, "I guess you're right. What's that?"
She put the letter down before him. "It's from Wobbly headquarters
in Chicago."
Billy Tucker, who was also dressed identically to Roy Cos, said, "Oh, oh.
I was beginning to wonder when we'd get a kick from the Agitation
Committee. Some of those speeches Ferd has been writing for you
aren't exactly the standard message the Wobblies have been making
for the last century or so."
Roy ripped open the envelope and quickly scanned the letter.
"I'll be damned," he said. "I've been promoted from national organizer
to a member of the Agitation Committee." He looked up at Mary Ann.
"That's our executive committee, headed by the national secretary. He
wants me to attend a meeting being organized by Synthesis."
"What in the hell's Synthesis?" Dick Samuelson said. He was lounging
against the wall, next to the door to the corridor, his carbine under his
right arm.
Roy grunted and said, "A new outfit that's trying to get all the radicals
together. The whole shebang: Libertarians, Nihilists, Wobblies, the
Anti-Racist League—everybody but those Eurocommunist slobs."
The door buzzed. Samuelson readied his gun and checked the identity
screen. It was Forty Brown.
The newsman came in followed by Ferd Feldmeyer, who was carrying a
sheaf of papers. The speech writer, like all the others of the team, was
in prole dress identical to that worn by Roy. It had been one of Ferry's
ideas. The whole team dressed exactly alike. As they invariably moved
in a tight group whenever they were in public, a hit man, at any distance
at all, would have his work cut out telling which one was Roy. Roy had
protested, particularly in the case of Mary
Ann, but she had overruled him. As with the grossly fat Ferd and the
king-sized Billy Tucker, there was small chance that even a myopic
assassin would confuse her with his target, but the whole crew of them
being dressed alike wouldn't help him any.
Forry, noticing the letter in Roy's hand, said, "What spins?"
"I've been made a member of the Agitation Committee. They want me
to attend a special meeting that's being held in an attempt to
amalgamate all radical groups."
"That's out. No more public appearances," Forry told him sourly. "From
now on, I've made arrangements for your broadcasts to be made from
right here. The fuzzies stationed at your last rally picked up two armed
men before they even got near enough to you for our boys to be
needed. Next meeting, there'd be more than two, and it's just a matter
of time before one or more of them gets within firing range. From now
on, you don't leave the New Tropical Hotel. You don't even leave this
floor."
Roy said, "I'll have to attend that Synthesis meeting, if the national
secretary wants me to."
"Screw the national secretary. Let him represent the Wobblies. He's
expendable; you're not. You're the Deathwish Wobbly and you've put
your message over more widely than all the rest of your outfit put
together since it was first started."
Roy shook his head, feeling tired all over again. "I appreciate what
you're trying to do, Forry, but I'm a member of an organization, not
just a one-man agitator. I take orders from our elected officials just
like Billy and Dick here do."
The little newsman shrugged angrily but gave up and fished a cigarette
pack from a jumper pocket.
Ferd Feldmeyer tossed his sheaf of papers on the desk before his
employer "Here's the United Church broadcast. I played it the way you
said, stressing the fact that the Wobblies have nothing against religion
per se since a man's relationship with his God is his personal business.
But when organized religion intrudes on politics, it's no longer a matter
of religion. They're as vulnerable as any other political organization."
Roy Cos was quickly scanning the speech. He said, "You used some
concrete examples—the Roman Catholic Church, during the Middle Ages
in particular, Islam, Shintoism in
Japan, and all other religions that have supported class-divided society
down through the ages?"
"Sure, sure," Feldmeyer said, running his obscenely obese hand back
through thinning blond hair. "Practically every large church—once it got
big—has supportd the status quo. And the Prophet's United Church is
no exception."
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 Grafs 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 pseudo-dollars 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 nothing 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 Grafs 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 Grafs 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 die 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.
Forty 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."
"They're not all crackpots," Ron said. "And it takes time to make a good
Wobbly. A lot of study. A lot of background."
"No, they're not all crackpots," Roy said. "Some are undoubtedly IABI
men ordered to infiltrate us and act as agents provocateurs. Some are
probably in the pay of the Graf, getting in where they can do the most
damage. What's the old Russian adage? When four men sit down to talk
revolution, three are police spies and the other a damn fool." He was
still looking at Forry Brown. "You and your story about Sacco and
Vanzetti."
Forry lit another cigarette from the butt of his old one. "They wanted
to get over their message. By being idealists.
The American people heard their message but rejected it, which is
undoubtedly what they should have done. Anarchy didn't fit the
country's needs. All right, you wanted to have the chance of getting
over the Wobbly program. You're doing it. Now it's up to the program.
If the majority of the people think it's good, they'll support it. If they
don't, they won't. What's your beef, Roy?" His tone was sour. Roy
nodded, tired still. "They haven't accepted it." Ron said, "They haven't
had time, Roy! For Chrissakes, it's only been a couple of weeks or so."
His chief ignored that, saying, "You know what the trouble is? Always in
the past when there was a fundamental change in the working, the
people were driven to it, usually by hunger and despair—the French
Revolution, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese before that, all the way
back to the slave revolts in Rome led by Spartacus. But we don't have
any hunger now, in the Welfare State. GAS takes care of everybody.
Not on a very high level, but nobody starves, nobody goes unsheltered
or unclothed, and medical care is free. The proles today are largely
what Marx used to call the lumpen proletariat. He expected them to
side with the enemy when the chips were down. And our lumpen proles
are lumpen indeed. Go into any autobar in the slummiest part of town
and say anything against the government and you'll have a fight on your
hands. One of the platitudes they have is their slogan, it was good
enough for Daddy and it's good enough for me.
Ron said uncomfortably, not at his ease in arguing with the older man he
admired so much, "You knew all that before we ever started, Roy. It's
admittedly a long road, but if we're right, sooner or later we'll win."
"So far as I'm concerned, and maybe Dick, it'll be later," the
Deathwish Wobbly said bitterly.
Chapter Twenty: Jeremiah Auburn
When Jerry Auburn awakened, it was to find Lee Garrett next to him,
up on one elbow. She was frowning puzzlement.
He grinned, his eyes glinting amusement, and said, "Did I put up a
valiant enough battle for my honor? I wouldn't want the word to get
out that I was an easy lay."
"What?"
He said, "When you raped me last night."
She was frowning still, ignoring his sally of humor. "I'm still wondering
where I've met you before. At first I thought it was just your voice,
but now I seem to find facial resemblances to someone I've met
somewhere. Have we?"
He laughed. "Yes, for a short time. But not under such circumstances
that I ever expected to wind up in your bed, honey. In fact, I lied to
you. Told you I didn't think blondes were…" He chuckled again.
"Someday, maybe, I'll tell you about it. Right now, you wouldn't believe
me anyway."
"Don't be cryptic, Jerry."
But he dropped it and his voice became serious. He said, "I'm going to
be leaving today, Lee. I've got some things to do in the States. Besides
that, I don't think I'd win high marks in a Roman popularity contest
right now. After that attempt in the restaurant, I'd rather be on my
own turf."
She nodded at that. "I heard a few rumors last night that you haven't
been exactly ingratiating yourself among some elements in the World
Club but then, of course, you were a little drenched."
"No," he told her definitely. "I knew what I was doing and I was doing it
deliberately. I don't like the present drift of the World Club and I
want to bring certain things to a decision. At any rate, I want you to
get in touch with Mendel Amschel and Fong Hui and let them know that
if it comes to a vote on a new Central Committee member to get in
touch with me, through you. I'm going to give you the number of my
tight beam transceiver. You're not to tell Sheila, or anyone else, about
this."
"But I work for Sheila Duff-Roberts. I can't…"
He interrupted her. "And she works for the Central Committee, and
Amschel and Fong and I are members of that committee, so you work
for us, above and beyond your obligations to Sheila."
"I suppose you're right." She hesitated, then said, "Jerry, what
happened to Pamela McGivern, the girl who preceded me?"
"I don't know," he said grimly. "It's one of the things I intend to find
out.''
He got out of bed and went to where he had so hastily disrobed the
night before. He gathered up his clothes and headed for the bathroom,
Lee looking after him thoughtfully. It occurred to her that though
she'd had several brief affairs, she'd never before met a man with
whom she might have considered a more permanent relationship. But
then she snorted in self-amusement. He was Jeremiah Auburn, for
years the leading igniter of the Rocket Set. Obviously, if he'd gotten
to his age without more prolonged alliances, he wasn't interested in
one. She wondered, all over again, where she could possibly have met
him before—as he had now admitted.
His decision made to return to the States, Jerry Auburn faded out of
Rome as inconspicuously as he had appeared. He didn't even bother to
pack a small bag. All his requirements could be met on his personal air
yacht.
He drove out the Appian Way to the International Shuttleport and
directly to his king-size airliner. On the way, he had alerted the captain
of his arrival and the fact that he wanted to be airborne immediately.
A skeleton crew was always aboard, so that ordinarily he could have
taken off immediately. However, the balance of the crew of eighteen,
including the stewards, was undoubtedly quartered at the shuttleport's
International Hotel and would be aboard as soon as he was.
The flight was uneventful. He sat in the main lounge, staring unseeingly
out one of the larger ports at the sea, far beneath. What he had told
Lee wasn't exactly correct. It wasn't just a matter of wanting to bring
things to a decision. They were coming to very basic decisions, and
Jeremiah Auburn was a high-survival type. He wished to be out in front
directing matters along the path he favored.
He had a steward call ahead and have one of his limousines available
when they landed, and to alert customs to pass him through without the
necessity of his going to the administration building. It was his
standard procedure. VIPs such as Jeremiah Auburn could be met on
their private aircraft and not be bothered with the inconveniences
suffered by the common herd. In such respects the 21st century
differed not at all from the centuries before it; wealth and power had
their privileges.
The limousine sped him to Manhattan and through its deserted streets,
arrogantly remaining on the surface rather than taking the
underground highway. They pulled up before the minor entrance on the
side street behind the towering office building which was his
destination. He entered the building, fishing in his pockets for his key
ring and the small silver key for his private elevator.
The elevator sped him up to the high-level floor he used for his
personal offices and living quarters while he was in residence. He
emerged into the reception room and nodded at the dazzlingly smiling
girl at the desk.
"Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Auburn," she gushed, rising. "We've been
expecting you, sir."
"Wizard," he told her brusquely. "Tell Barry Wimple I'll see him in my
quarters in five minutes."
"Yes, Mr. Auburn," she simpered.
For Christ's sake, he thought inwardly, let's not be too damned
effervescent, as he pushed his way through to the office behind. It
was staffed with two neatly suited accountant types and two gorgeous,
efficient-looking women who could have landed Tri-Di parts portraying
brisk secretaries of upper-echelon corporation executives. They were
all deftly at work when he entered; whether make-work or not, he
didn't know. They all stood and chorused smiled greetings, and he
nodded back while striding across the room.
He had a suspicion that if he'd said, "Miss Jones, come into my
apartments, I want to lay you," not one of the four would have blinked
an eye and Miss Jones would have trotted after him. He had a dozen
such staffs in half a dozen countries throughout the globe.
Simmons was waiting for him in the living room, ramrod-stiff,
subservient just to the correct point, not sickeningly so. "Welcome
home, Mr. Auburn," he said.
Jerry looked around the lush room. "Did you think this was home?" he
growled. He headed for the bar, adding over his shoulder, "I came
without luggage. Check to see if all my needs are available. Tell the
chef—what's his name here, Henri?—that I'll probably dine in the
apartment tonight. Alone."
"Yes, sir, of course. Yes, it's Henri, sir. He's anxious that you taste his
new dish based on shad roe."
"Wizard," Jerry said, taking up a cognac bottle from the bar and
pouring into a glass generously. The butler faded. Jerry sat down on a
couch, put his feet up on a cocktail table, and took a pull at the drink.
Barry Wimple entered from the door that led to the offices. He was
the epitome of the senior executive. Jerry Auburn sometimes
wondered if they took courses in grooming at New Harvard Business
College. He had never seen a senior executive who wasn't groomed to
his teeth. He suspected that the other's clothing bill was greater than
his own.
"Welcome back, Mr. Auburn," Wimple said. "Was your trip to Europe
satisfactory?"
Jerry regarded him coolly. "How did you know I went to Europe?"
The other looked at him in distress. "Why, Mr. Auburn, Captain
Wayland of your air yacht recorded it in his report."
Jerry made a note to do something about that. He didn't like anybody
at all to know where he was at any given time. But obviously Wayland
had to make reports on his expenditures, costs of fuel, landing fees,
and so on.
He said, "Barry, I want you to get a few heavies in here when I'm in
residence."
"Heavies, Mr. Auburn?"
"Hard types; guards. And I don't want you to hire them from
Mercenaries, Incorporated. I've got reason to believe there might be a
contract out on me. Get them from some competitor of the Graf."
His New York office head blinked at him. "A contract?
You mean… but, sir, that's ridiculous. Who could possibly want you…"
"Not everybody loves me like you do, Barry. So, six guards. I want them
here this afternoon, inconspicuously, and I want them to shake down
anybody who comes to see me."
"This afternoon?"
"Yes, preferably. But especially tonight. Is Lester here?"
"Yes, Mr. Auburn. And Ted Meer as well, as you instructed."
Lester was a carbon copy of Barry Wimple, fifteen years younger. One
glance marked him as an efficient, supercilious WASP who would wind
up a millionaire by middle age almost without trying.
Jerry nodded at his greeting and said, "Lester, I want you to find out
who is the head of Mercenaries, Incorporated in North America. Have
him here this evening. Tell him that the meeting is confidential. I'm
assuming that New York is his base of operations."
Lester stared at him blankly, a touch of dismay there. "Mercenaries,
Incorporated, sir?"
"You heard me. If they're here, and they should be, there must be
some manner of contacting them. Start earning your pay, damn it. Don't
you know any upper slot news people, or someone in the IABI? Either
should know."
Wimple cleared his throat. "I have a niece who is married to a captain
of detectives in the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation, Mr.
Auburn."
"That ought to do it. Anything else pressing on the agenda, Barry?"
His senior aide said, "There's a representative from the Lagrangists
waiting to see you, sir. When the order came for your limousine, I took
the liberty of informing him that you were to be here this afternoon
and that you might work him into your schedule. He's on his way. Of
course, if you haven't the time…"
"Lagrangists?" Jerry said. "You mean from Lagrange Five? What does
he want?"
"He wouldn't say, sir. He wanted to discuss it with you face to face. He
was upset when I told him that you had retired and seldom devoted
time to business matters anymore."
Jerry grunted. "Send him into my office when he arrives. I
don't believe I've ever met a real space colonist before. Brief me,
Barry. How much have we currently got invested in Lagrange Five and
the Asteroid Belt Islands?"
"Two hundred and twelve million and, ah, some change, Mr. Auburn.
Largely in the Satellite Solar Power Plants."
Jerry grunted again. "That much? All right, you two, get going. I'll see
the Lagrangist in my office and the Mercenaries, Incorporated bastard
here in my quarters, both as soon as they've arrived. And remember,
Barry, I want the new guards to frisk them before they see me."
The two left. As they crossed the outer office, Lester said to his
higher-up, "He's a tough sonofabitch."
Wimple looked at him from the side of his eyes. "I'd probably be the
same if I had inherited a few billion."
Jerry Auburn was idly looking at some reports he wouldn't ordinarily
have bothered with when the man from Lagrange Five was announced.
He hadn't known what he had expected; among other things, possibly an
older man than this, if the other was an official representative from
the space islands.
Ian Venner was disgustingly healthy looking. He must have been exactly
the height and weight that the insurance statistics averaged out on a
man of his age. He was a sun-faded blond, sharp blue of eye, with a
good mouth on the wide and dry humorous side, and a strong chin. He
looked as though he either owned the place or didn't give a damn who
did.
"Sit down, Mr. Venner," Jerry said, even while sizing the other up.
"Just Venner," the newcomer said crisply. "We don't use the term
Mister in Lagrangia.''
Jerry said, "Why not?"
"It is derived from the word master and I don't wish to be anyone's
master any more than I want someone else to be mine."
Jerry refrained from twisting his mouth in amusement. "What can I do
for you, Venner?"
"The Space Federation is desirous of buying out your holdings in space,
Auburn. I've been sent to make initial contact."
"Man, you don't waste words. What federation? I don't usually handle
this sort of thing. I have aides who make business decisions in which I
seldom involve myself. I didn't even know there was a federation in
Lagrangia."
The other nodded, not as though he approved of Jerry Auburn's
divorcing himself from the details of his enterprises, but as though he
had already heard of the fact. He said, "Recently, a loose-knit
organization has been formed to represent the united needs of
Lagrangia and the Belt Islands."
Jerry scowled. "United States of the Americas? Common Europe? The
Soviet Complex? The Reunited Nations? Or a combination of two or
more, or all of them?"
"No. The federation represents only space colonists actually living in
space. We have no other affiliations."
"Don't be ridiculous," Jerry growled. "Every island in space is controlled
by either some Earthside nation, the Reunited Nations, or by
consortiums of multinational corporations."
His visitor was shaking his head. "Times are changing. One by one, we're
buying out private interests in Lagrangia and the Asteroids, and most
of the new islands are colonized from the older islands but have no
political ties to them, or to the original nations which first founded
them."
Jerry was staring at him now. This was absolutely new. There wasn't
much news about the space projects any more; they were being played
down drastically, as budgets were being cut on the space program. Still,
he should have heard of this.
He said, "You mean to tell me that up in space you people get together
and build a new island that has no affiliation whatsoever to Earthside
private enterprise or to any specific nation?"
"That's correct. We're tired of misguidance from, ah, Earthworms."
"Earthworms!"
The Lagrangist wasn't without humor. He laughed lightly and said, "An
old joke."
Jerry said, "But buying out my interests in solar power and such. Where
the hell would you get the credits? One of my executives just informed
me I have over two hundred million in investments in space."
The other agreed to that. "From the first, pay in space has been
astronomical, compared to that Earthside. And, frankly, there is
comparatively little to spend it on. We don't particularly go for
ostentatious living, conspicuous consumption. We have no desire to keep
up with the Joneses, or have a larger house, or boat—in those islands
large enough to have suitable bodies of water—than our neighbors. I
don't mean that there are any rules against it, but we simply don't do
it. We pile up the credits. Some of the more energetic among us began
to put scientific and industrial space developments to work for
exports—artificial diamonds, for instance. Now we have enough money
to buy out Earthside interests and, uh, I believe the term you use down
here is to nationalize them."
"Why?" Jerry said blankly.
His visitor sighed. "For one thing, you Earthworms are usually unable to
identify with our problems. You send instructions that are ridiculous
considering the situations that apply. Often you send directives to
expand in some direction in which expansion is pure nonsense, or refuse
to divert funds to some effort which is absolutely necessary. It's
something like England running the Thirteen Colonies from three
thousand miles away. The British had no conception of the problems
that faced American colonists."
Jerry Auburn was astonished. He came to his feet and made his way
over to his office bar, his face in thought. "Drink?" he said.
The Lagrangist said, "You wouldn't have any Reman Riesling, would you?
Top Earthside wines are one of the few things we haven't been able to
duplicate in Lagrangia. We're working on it," he added quickly.
"I have some," Jerry murmured, still in his other thoughts. He filled
glasses and returned to his desk, extending his visitor the dry white
wine.
After settling back into his chair and swallowing some of his brandy, he
said, "So: the space colonists are attempting to cut ties with Mother
Earth."
"Some mother," the other said wryly. "More like a stepmother."
"How do you mean?"
"Earth has, from the beginning, only exploited Lagrangia and the Belt
Islands. Almost all the profits are funneled back to Earth, rather than
being used for continued expansion of the space program. A corporation
wants immediate dividends; not, uh, pie in the sky a century from now.
We have a different view. We've got a different dream."
Jerry was becoming increasingly intrigued. "So you're having trouble
with Earth. Such as?"
The other took another sip of his wine, appreciatively. He looked at the
multibillionaire and said, "Almost all funds for the space programs have
been cut to ribbons. It's practically impossible for a top scientist or
technician from whatever country to get permission to migrate to the
space islands. Even ordinary folk are highly discouraged from leaving
for Lagrangia or the Asteroids. Whenever we make a scientific
breakthrough in the islands we immediately rush the details Earthside,
but of recent years the Earth nations do not reciprocate. They keep
their discoveries to themselves."
"Why should we do that?"
Venner shrugged and frowned before answering. "We're not sure.
Maybe we're going too fast in the islands; the Earthside powers are
afraid we'll upset the boat, come up with changes that will threaten the
status quo. We're contributing to future shock with a vengeance.
Sooner or later, almost every Earth institution will be threatened with
change as a result of developments in space."
"Probably true." Jerry thought about it before saying, "These new
developments of yours. What kind of political system have you dreamed
up?"
"We're experimenting with a half-dozen alternatives." The other
flashed a grin of deprecation. "None of them very similar to anything
now prevailing Earthside."
"I'll be damned," Jerry said. Then, "Look, with emigration being
deliberately discouraged, how are you populating these new islands of
the Federation?"
The other looked him straight in the eye. "Partially from natural
increase. We still like kids in the space colonies. But even more so from
the original islands."
Jerry looked at him quizzically. "Wouldn't the original islands take a
dim view of losing their inhabitants in that manner?"
Ian Venner wasn't fazed. "Some of them do, especially in the Belt."
"I'd think the Soviet Complex would send the KGB up en masse."
"They do. And they defect. For that matter, so do the IABI men, and
those from the Common Europe Interpol, while chasing felons who've
run to Lagrangia. My own—never mind," he finished, smiling to himself.
"Jesus," Jerry muttered. "I'll have to have my people do me a brief on
this. I had no idea…" He scrutinized the Lagrangist again. "How are
racial problems in Lagrangia and the Asteroids?"
"What race problems?"
Jerry was impatient. "You know: conflict between the races. Blacks,
whites, yellows…"
The man from Lagrangia was just as impatient. "Auburn," he
interrupted, "when you're out in deep space and something happens to
your suit, you don't give a good goddamn whether the person next to
you is black, yellow, or green. Death only comes in one color. In space,
all humans cooperate, or they die. We pay no more attention to a
person's race than his religion, if he has any—which he most likely
doesn't."
Jerry said, "Come again?"
Venner was still impatient. "That's one of the reasons we're on the shit
list. The Prophet has been pulling out all the stops when it comes to
space colonization. He found out about twenty years ago that there
wasn't a single church in Lagrange Five and demanded that he be
allowed to build a United Church mission in our Island One. Obviously,
we couldn't care less, so he built it and manned it."
"But nobody came, eh?" Jerry Auburn was amused.
"Oh, we all came. Once. In fact, some came back again for the second
time… for laughs. Good grief, Auburn, any emigrants to the space
colonies are screened to hell and gone, not for just competence in their
line of work, but for intelligence, education, Ability Quotient. How many
of them do you think can believe in the religious mythologies of the
Jews, the Christians, the Moslems, the Buddhists, the Shinto-ists, or
any of the rest? And if we tried to teach the Genesis account, Noah's
Ark and the rest, do you think any of them would swallow it? Sorry."
Jerry got up and went over to the bar to refresh their drinks. He
returned with them and said, "I begin to see why you people are getting
uptight. So you've been rather quietly acquiring all private investments
in space that you can get your hands on, as fast as you can finance it.
But why approach me directly? Why not resort to various stock
exchanges and buy up a controlling interest in Auburn Space
Development, Incorporated?"
Ian Vernier said, "It's a question we debated. However, your
grandfather was one of the first to invest in Lagrange Five, and he did
it with no strings attached. He didn't make quick initial profits and
keep them Earthside. For two decades, he reinvested all income from
space back into the projects. When he died, your father continued the
policy. And he didn't use Earthworm directors. He was the first to have
sense enough to appoint experienced Lagrangists, usually second-
generation colonists. Nor have we had any interference from you since
you have inherited the Auburn interests. So we decided, in all fairness,
that we should consult you without the bullshit."
"You did it, that's a fact," Jerry Auburn said. He thought about it for
long moments during which time the other held his peace. He sipped at
his brandy until the glass was empty, then put it down and turned to one
of the screens on his desk. He flicked it on, and when a face faded in,
said, "Barry, make arrangements to sell all our interests in Auburn
Space Development to the Space Federation. I have a gentleman here
in my office named Ian Venner, from Lagrangia. Go over the details
with him. You'll have to relay this to Central and to Sillitoe in London
and Flaker in Berlin. But first, buy what common shares you can and add
them to our holdings you turn over."
Barry Wimple gaped, but Jerry flicked the switch again and turned
back to the equally gaping Lagrangist.
Venner said, "But look. We make a policy of paying cash, when we've
accumulated enough credits to swing our latest acquisition. This was to
be the largest thus far. We don't want to be saddled with paying
interest for…"
"No interest," Jerry said flatly. "I'm turning my space properties over
to your Federation." He stood and extended a hand. "Perhaps, someday,
you'll be able to do a favor for me. Meanwhile, you can use those
credits you've accumulated the hard way to buy up some other
properties. The move is on, Venner, to create a world government. If
such elements as the United Church are in control of that world state,
you people are going to be in the soup. You'd better make yourselves as
independent as possible, as soon as possible."
The Lagrangist, still in something of a daze, shook hands. He said
hesitantly, which was out of character for him, "I don't know what
motivates you, Auburn, but I assume that you've thought this out. And
I can assure you that the Federation is most anxious to grant that
favor.''
Jerry smiled suddenly. "No racism in space, eh?"
The other was mystified. "That's right. There hasn't been from the
beginning."
When Ian Venner was gone, Jerry went back to his living room, got a
double brandy from the bar, and spread himself out on a couch. He
remained there for a couple of hours, staring unseeingly out the huge
window which overlooked Manhattan. From time to time he got up to
replenish the glass.
At one time he said aloud, "What in hell am I doing in this position?"
And ten minutes later he answered himself. "I was born into it."
It had grown dark outside by the time the identity screen buzzed on
the door leading to the offices. He sat erect and looked over. It was
Lester.
Jerry said, "Yeah?" a slight slur in his voice.
"Mr. Luca Cellini is here, sir."
"Send him in."
The door opened and an alert-looking stranger entered. In his late
thirties, he could have been one of Jerry's staff, so far as appearance
was concerned. He was dark of complexion in the Sicilian tradition,
clean and handsome of features, sharp of eye. He took the room in
completely in one quick sweep, then turned to its occupant.
Jerry got up and went over to the bar for still another drink, saying
over his shoulder, "Sit down, Cellini. You're the Graf's local man?"
The newcomer seated himself in a comfort chair and crossed his legs,
adjusting his beautifully tailored trousers.
He said, "That's right, Mr. Auburn, and for both hemispheres of the
Americas. What can I do for you?"
Jerry came back, reseated himself on the couch, and viewed the other.
He said finally, "What would you take to sell out the Graf?"
Luca Cellini stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, "First of all,
nine lives, like a cat."
Jerry said nothing, took a sip of his drink.
Cellini leaned forward a bit. "Mr. Auburn," he said "I don't want to
antagonize you. I know who you are, and I know how much weight you
can throw. Even the Graf wouldn't want to antagonize you. However,
I've been working for Lothar Von Brandenburg for over twenty years.
One of his scouts brought me off the streets when I was a kid. I've
been with him ever since. He even sent me to school. Now I'm settled in
the organization. The pay's good, more than I could ever have expected
with my background. In short, Mr. Auburn, I owe the Graf. He's been
more than a father to me."
Jerry took another pull at the drink, without removing his eyes from
the other. He said slowly, "The Grafs a has-been. Mercenaries are
rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and so is selling arms to would-be
revolutionists. Already Latin America, once a lucrative field of
operation for you, is now part of the United States and sealed off from
your operations. And that's just the beginning. World government is on
the way. When it comes, there will be little use, anywhere, for
mercenaries and illicit arms sales. Hit men for the Death wish policies
will be gone, since such policies will be illegal with a World State.
There'll be a great fall-off in bodyguarding and assassinations, since
most of them are international and there won't be any nations. The
Graf is hedging his bets, trying to get into the upper hierarchy of the
World Club so he'll have a place in the new scheme of things. You rank-
and-file employees will largely be dropped. So, looking out for your own
interests, you'd better get out while you can."
Luca Cellini had not worked his way up to his present standing in the
Graf's organization by being slow.
He said, "Mind if I smoke?"
Jerry shook his head.
The New Yorker took out a gold cigar case and from it drew a panatela.
The end had already been pierced. He brought forth a gold lighter and
lit the long cigar carefully. He said, "I couldn't sell out the Graf. He'd
get me no matter where I tried to hide. Just as easily as he gets those
Deathwish policy suckers. Few of them last a week."
Jerry nodded, taking back more of the drink that he didn't need. His
eyes were already shining in the characteristic way they did after a
half-liter of spirits.
He said, "Try this. We'd arrange a Shootout in which you were involved.
You'd supposedly take a couple of hits and the ambulance would haul
you off to a clinic owned by a doctor on my payroll. He'd operate on
you, making a few impressive-looking scars and possibly taking a half
inch or so out of one of your shin bones, so you'd be left with a
noticeable limp. When you were released from the clinic, the doctor's
report would read that you were ninety percent disabled, possibly one
of your kidneys shot away, or something. My people know how to do it.
You'd report to the Graf or Peter Windsor or whoever you report to,
that you have to retire. So you go to some island paradise like Samoa,
and settle down living the good life in retirement on whatever pension
the Graf settles on you, and especially the sum I give you. You stay
there at least until Mercenaries, Incorporated is gone from the scene—
possibly Lothar von Brandenburg as well. Possibly you spend the rest of
your life where you're not apt to run into any of your present
associates. So, the question is still, what would you want to sell out the
Graf?"
Luca Cellini was staring again and breathing deeper now. He said, "Could
I have a drink?"
His host motioned with his head toward the bar. Cellini went over to it
and poured himself a triple from the same bottle his host had used, He
swallowed part of it and returned to his chair.
He said, "One million pseudo-dollars, tax-free and untrace-able."
Jerry nodded in agreement. "Very well. As you leave, Lester will make
arrangements with you to deposit that amount to whatever account you
prefer. I assume that you have at least one secret account in Nassau,
Tangier, or wherever."
Cellini nodded. "I know you don't welch, Mr. Auburn. I trust you. What
did you want from me?"
"What happened to Harold Dunninger?"
"He was kidnapped by the Nihilists. When his wife wouldn't pony up the
ransom, they hit him."
"I know what was in the news. How did you set it up?"
The other moistened his lips. "I was supplying his bodyguards. There
were twelve of them, four on a shift. I pulled four of them off at the
crucial time, supposedly rotating them. The orders came from Windsor.
The Nihilist who pulled off the kidnapping was one of ours. We've had
him planted with them for years. He placed the ransom amount so high
that there wasn't a chance Dunninger's wife would pay it. We'd
checked her out to make sure."
"What's the name of your mole in the Nihilists?"
"Nils Ostrander."
"New subject: What happened to Pamela McGivern?"
Cellini shook his head. "Never heard of her."
Jerry thought about it for a moment, then accepted that and said,
"What else has been going on under your jurisdiction?"
"We've diverted all our best men to hitting the Deathwish Wobbly."
"Who?" Jerry scowled.
"Roy Cos, a screwball radical who took out a Deathwish Policy. Instead
of blowing the credits coming to him like all the rest, he's devoted it to
buying prime time so he can sound off against the system. He's
surrounded himself with a flock of guards, all devoted to him, and we
haven't been able to get through. He's scheduled to show in a couple of
days. All the screwball outfits are getting together in Chicago for what
they call a synthesis meeting. He's supposed to represent the
Wobblies."
"I guess I have heard about him," Jerry said, his voice deeper in its
slur now, his eyes brighter. He was obviously at least half drenched in
booze. "What else?"
"Nothing much. They sent over a new man from the Wolfschloss." Cellini
looked up. "That's the…"
"I know," Jerry said. "The Grafs fortress in Liechtenstein. Goon "
"Kid named Franklin Pinell," Cellini growled. "It's not the way the
organization usually operates. Windsor said to cooperate with him one
hundred percent. Handle him with kid gloves. Grafs orders."
Jerry eyed him. "What's he supposed to do?"
"Hit a spade named Horace Hampton, evidently. Never heard of
Hampton."
Jerry Auburn's face froze. All of a sudden, he didn't seem quite so
influenced by the drink he'd been putting down. "Why?" he got out.
"Damned if I know. There's a contract on him. Why we couldn't have
handled it is a mystery to me. Routine stuff."
After a moment, Jerry said, "Anything else?"
"Can't think of anything."
"Wizard. Go out to Lester. He'll cover you with all that we've agreed
on."
The executive came to his feet, looked at the man who had just bought
him, then, without further words, turned and headed for the door.
Jerry finished his drink, went over to the living room's small desk, and
sat down before the screen there. He flicked it on and said, "Ted
Meer."
When the face of his aide appeared, he said, "Check as deeply as you
can on these men. First, a Franklin Pinell. All I know about him is that
he's young, has recently been in Europe, including Liechtenstein, and is
connected with Mercenaries, Incorporated, evidently on a high level.
Second, Roy Cos, the so-called Deathwish Wobbly. Third, a Nils
Ostrander of the Nihilists, evidently one of their more militant
members; possibly connected with some of their more flagrant
operations. And, oh yes, who are we currently using for our private
investigations in Common Europe?"
His aide said, "We're still using Pinkerton International, Mr. Auburn."
"Very well. Get them to put all-out effort into checking a Pamela
McGivern, an Irish girl, recently employed as a secretary by the World
Club, at their headquarters in the Palazzo Colonna in Rome. She
disappeared about a week or so ago. This is crash priority, Meer. I want
results immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Jerry Auburn flicked the screen off, sighed, and went back to the bar.
In the morning, he had a raging hangover. He went into the bathroom
and got a bottle of Sober-Ups from the medicine cabinet, shuddered,
and took one. Still in pajamas, he went into the living room and
stretched out on the couch, after touching a button set into its
armrest.
Simmons entered, immaculately correct. He took one look at his
employer and said sadly, "Yes, sir."
"Wipe that goddamned superior, long-suffering look off your face and
bring me about a gallon of Italian Expresso."
"Yes, sir." The butler left.
Jerry Auburn went through the agony of the stepped-up recuperation
from overindulgence. When he at last felt semi-healthy, he groaned,
took himself over to the desk, and flicked on the screen.
Ted Meer appeared, looking weary as though he hadn't been to bed the
night before.
Jerry said nastily, "Why in the hell don't you take pep pills when you've
got a siege before you?" He knew that his aide had an aversion to
stimulants but was in no mood to sympathize.
"Yes, sir," the other said.
"Well, what have you found out?"
"We have the Dossier Complete of Roy Cos, as well as his activities of
the last weeks since he has broken into the news. The material is on
your desk. We have drawn a blank on Nils Ostrander. It is obviously an
assumed name. The IABI is on the verge of arresting him in connection
with the kidnapping and death of Harold Ounninger but thus far has
insufficient evidence with which to operate. There is a vague hint that
higher ups are protecting him, though that would seem impossible."
"Shit it is," Jerry muttered. "Go on."
"Franklin Pinell was recently deported from the United States after
four felony sentences, the last of which was a homicide, He was sent to
Tangier but he never reported to the Moroccan police. He is the son of
the late Willard Pinell, known in mercenary circles as Buck Pinell. The
elder Pinell, in partnership with Lothar von Brandenburg, founded
Mercenaries, Incorporated over twenty years ago. Present location of
Franklin Pinell is unknown."
Jerry said, "He's here in the States. If he's a deportee, undoubtedly
under an alias and with false papers. Put the Pinkertons on his trail.
What about Pamela McGivern?"
"There hasn't been sufficient time for much of a report, save that she
has not returned to Ireland. Her family lives in Dublin. They haven't
heard from her for a month."
Jerry thought over what he had been told for a few mo-ments, then
said, "Keep at it. If anything important breaks, get in touch with me
immediately. Keep digging on this Franklin Pinell and get some
background on his father, Buck. Find out everything you can about him,
especially his relationship with Lothar von Brandenburg." He hesitated,
then went on. "I also want to check out a Lee Garrett, including all the
dope you can get on her father and mother, who evidently weren't
married. She's currently in residence at the Palazzo Colonna in Rome
and has the job formerly held by Pamela McGivern. Check for any
hanky-panky there might have been in her being selected by the
computers for her job there. I don't want a cursory report on this. I
want deep digging. It's extremely difficult, but not impossible, to
jimmy the computers or the data banks."
"Yes, sir," Ted Meer said. "Anything else, Mr. Auburn?"
"No. I'll get in touch, Ted." Jerry turned off the screen and ran his
hand over his facial stubble.
He thought some more, then reached for the screen again, touching the
stud that would deactivate the video. He dialed slowly, remembering
the digits. Max Finklestein's face appeared, frowning at the fact that
his own screen was blank.
"Who is it?" he said, rubbing the end of his Armenian nose in irritation.
"Hamp," Jerry said. "Horace Hampton."
"How the hell do I know it's Hamp?" Max said irritably.
"The last time I saw you we had our faces buried in the leaves behind
the We Shall Overcome Motel, with Tom Horse and Joe Zavalla.
Something's wrong with my damn transceiver."
"All right," the other said. "What spins, Hamp?"
"I'm tired of being on leave. What do you want me to do?"
"You'll have to check with National Headquarters, Hamp. I'm not
running you anymore. I've been promoted to the National Executive
Committee. I'm being sent up to Chicago to represent the Anti-Racist
League at the Synthesis meeting."
Jerry blinked. This was better than he could have expected. His mind
racing, he said, "I've heard a little about that meeting, Max, some of it
disquieting. I want in."
Max Finklestein said, "Why?" puzzlement in his voice.
"As muscle. Among others, Roy Cos is going to be there and so is Nils
Ostrander."
"I know about Cos, but who's Nils Ostrander?"
"The Nihilist who engineered the kidnap killing of that multimillionaire,
Harold Dunninger. There's an off chance that the IABI might try to
pick him up at the meeting."
Max said suspiciously, "How in the name of Christ do you know?"
"Sticking my ears out. Ever since this Roy Cos character has been
sounding off, everybody and his cousin have been talking about the
different radical organizations. Not just the Wobblies, but all radicals.
The idea of fundamental change is in the air."
Max considered it. He finally nodded and said, "All right. I'll check it
out with the Executive Committee but they'll undoubtedly okay it. Each
organization is allowed two delegates. You might as well be my partner.
Suppose we meet there."
"Wizard," Jerry said. "See you, Max."
He cut the screen, then flicked on the video again and the switch for
his harassed aide. Ted Meer's face came on.
Jerry said, "One more thing, Ted. Plant a news story, and I mean really
plant it, so that nobody who listens to the news at all could possibly
miss it. The story is that Horace Hampton, an alleged suspect in the
recent attack on Governor Teeter, will be present representing the
Anti-Racist League at the Synthesis meeting to be held by radical
groups in Chicago."
His aide said, "Yes, Mr. Auburn. That name again?"
"Horace Hampton, damn it. Take some pep pills!"
He flicked off, then immediately back on again. He dialed and almost
immediately his own face was there on the screen. He said, "Hi, Jim.
What spins?"
His double grinned at him. "I still think I've got the best goddamn job
in the world."
Jerry laughed. "You probably have at that, you chronic hedonist. I do all
the work, you have all the fun, and between us we're Jeremiah Auburn.
Okay, Jim. You're to surface again, immediately. This time, drop the
recluse bit. Go to one of the gambling resorts—Monte Carlo or Nice.
Drop a hundred thousand or so at roulette, or whatever. Enough so that
it'll be picked up by the news people and have society commentators
asking whether Jerry Auburn is coming out of seclusion to rejoin the
Rocket Set."
"Got it," Jim said. "Great. Back to the high life. Do I need to know what
it's all about?"
"No. Not necessary." Jerry's face broke into another fond grin. "Just
be sure to remember the names of people you meet and what you did
with them, especially the mopsies you might lay, you damned screwing
machine. We'll have to get together again one of these days, Jim, and
bend a few elbows. It's been a long time since we've sat across a table
from each other and tossed back a few. There's something weird about
getting drenched and sitting across from you… yourself.''
"Tell me about it," Jim said. "The last time I didn't recover for days.
And it wasn't just because I was looking at my own face."
Jerry laughed and flicked the screen off, touched another switch. This
time, Barry Wimple's face came on.
Jerry said, "I'll be leaving town again, Barry. Dismiss the staff. You and
Ted and Lester check into Central, of course. I don't know how long it'll
be before I'm back this time."
His senior executive was aghast. "But, Mr. Auburn, I've got a dozen
top-priority matters…"
"That's what I pay you for, Barry," Jerry said, brushing aside the
other's complaint. "The decisions are up to you and the rest of your
boys. When you start making bad ones, it's your ass. Meanwhile, I want
the staff cleared out of here before noon."
"Yes, sir," the old man said unhappily.
Jerry turned him off, then slumped in his chair for a moment and took
a deep breath before heading for the master bedroom. He passed
through it into the dressing room, went into the bath, and to the
medical cabinet, which he opened with a small key to bring forth a
hypodermic needle. Minutes later he returned to the dressing room. He
sat down before the mirror, pulled out a drawer, and took up the small
box containing his colored contact lenses.
"Doc Jekyll, meet Comrade Hyde," he muttered.
Chapter Twenty-One: Horace Hampton
Horace Hampton looked up at the lanky, stoop-shouldered man who
hovered over his table in the automated bar, grinning down at him.
"Thought I'd find you here," Max Finklestein said. "It's the nearest
bar to Assembly Halls."
"Hi, Max," Hamp said. "Have some of this syntho-beer. How did
Shakespeare put it? 'Weaker than woman's tears,' or something. They
ought to stick it back in the horse."
"Not up to your usual standards, eh?" the older man said, even as he
slid into a chair opposite the black. He put his credit card in the table's
payment slot and dialed for a mug of the brew.
Hamp looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean, old chum-pal?"
The center of the table sank down to return with the beer. Max took a
drink of it, then wiped the coarse foam from his lips. "It means that
usually you drink more expensive stuff than the proles have to put up
with."
The other's look turned quizzical. "How do you know?"
"I've been checking up on you."
"Wizard, and what've you found?"
"That you're not exactly a down-and-out nigger subsisting on GAS."
Max grinned at him in deprecation.
"That's the trouble with you kikes," Hamp said. "Nosy."
Max Finklestein said, "I was sitting around one day, minding my own
business, when the thought came to me that the Anti-Racist League
was in better funds than it should be. Most of the membership consists
of minority elements who'd contribute a lot to the cause if they could,
but they can't— they're largely on GAS. Somehow the organization
never seems to lack sufficient funds, though. So purely out of curiosity,
I began checking on the source of the larger donations that come
through. And guess what I found?"
"I know what you found," Hamp said. He finished his beer and dialed
another.
Max said, "Why all the secrecy? Why not just openly donate it, in one
lump sum, instead of here and there in dribbles?"
Hamp sighed and said, "Because I'm of the opinion that a race, a
nationality, or a social class should finance its own emancipation. You
mustn't hand somebody freedom on a platter. Suppose I came out and
gave a million pseudo-dollars to the Anti-Racist League in a flat sum.
Then the membership as a whole would stop their pathetically small
donations, as meaningless. But it's not meaningless for a man to give up
his guzzle, his sometime extravagance, or his occasional splurge, for a
cause he believes in. It's not meaningless for him to sacrifice. It's part
of his fight for freedom."
"Quite a speech," Max said. "Where'd you get all this money, Hamp? Or
is it a secret? Are you a big-time crook? That's all the organization
needs in the way of publicity—one of its most active members turning
out to be a crook."
Hamp sighed. "Come off it, Max. It's according to what you mean by
crook, I suppose. Yesterday, I tuned in on this Deathwish Wobbly, who
we're supposed to get together with tonight. According to him, the
whole upper class is composed of crooks. Their wealth has been stolen
from the useful workers."
"So you're upper class."
"I suppose so. It's a long story, Max."
The other looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got time."
Hamp sighed again. "It starts with a slave down in South Carolina—Pod
Hampton. I haven't a violin to play so I'll skip the details of the hard
time he had. When he finally lit out, he took old massa's silver with him.
In fact, the kind old massa was on the rich side and some of the so-
called silver was gold. Pod managed to get it, and himself, up to Boston.
And there he swore a great oath, understand? He wasn't going to spend
any of his, ah, ill-gotten gains on himself. Instead, he was going to
invest it and use the proceeds to fight for freeing his people.
"At that time there was no valid organization putting up such a fight.
He thought the Abolitionists were a bunch of impractical do-gooders, a
bunch of starry-eyed whiteys who, beneath it all, believed that blacks
really were inferior, and should be pampered like children by those who
were good of heart, rather than being exploited as slaves. He continued
to invest the money; railroads, mainly. When he died, both the
securities and the dream went to his oldest son who, if anything, was
even more solidly anti-racist than the old man. He managed the
investments—some land in the so-called Great American Desert really
paid off—but didn't spend much of it on himself. During his lifetime
the Civil War took place, but it didn't take any genius to see that the
freed blacks weren't much better off than they had been as slaves.
And there was still no organization that seemed fit to turn the money
over to. Those were the boom times of industrialization, and the money
was still largely in railroads. It grew. It grew still more under his son.
And along here somewhere, it became obvious that not spending any of
it no longer made sense. The fortune needed full-time management—
office employees and so forth. The next son dropped railroads and
went into automobiles."
Max whistled softly.
Hamp went on, after dialing still another syntho-beer. "These sons all
continued the dream. They were devoted to ending racism. They'd
progressed beyond the point of fighting for black rights alone. They
were also smart enough not to throw the fortune away on lost causes.
They were hanging onto it until the right time and the right
organization came along. The fortune was kept as secret as possible and
they led very simple lives while managing it. Remember, they were
smart. One by one, as new developments such as radio, the airplane, and
later, electronics, came along, they got in on the ground floor. For
instance, one of them helped launch IBM back in the 1920s."
"That would explain it, without the other stuff," said Max.
"And along in here came a new development. It wasn't practical to live
like misers while hoarding a fortune that would one day be used to end
world racism. To manage a modern fortune, you've got to be educated
in top schools, you've got to have the correct social and financial
contacts, which are often the same people. In short, you've got to move
in the right circles. It's all part of the great fortunes game. A
Rockefeller, a Mellon, a Rothschild, can't operate out of a sleazy flat in
Harlem. At any rate, Max, I'm the current holder of the purse strings
and the Anti-Racist League is being doled out all the funds I feel it can
handle at this point."
Max was eyeing him. "I'll be damned," he said. "That fortune must be
king-size by now."
"It is," Hamp said dryly. "And the present descendant of Pod Hampton
still has the dream."
Max said, "But for Christ's sake, you shouldn't be risking yourself
carrying out extreme assignments for the organization."
Hamp looked at him flatly. "I refuse to finance activities that I'm not
willing to take on myself. If Indians like Tom Horse and Chicanes like
Jose Zavalla are willing to take the risks they do, so is Horace
Hampton."
Max nodded acceptance of that stand. "Right," he said. "I assume you
want me to keep this to myself."
"If I thought you couldn't, I wouldn't have told you," Hamp said.
Max looked at his wrist chronometer again. "I suppose we ought to get
going. The Synthesis committee has rented a small hall for the meeting.
Only delegates are to be admitted— and their bodyguards."
As they stood, Hamp looked over at him questioningly.
Max laughed. "I assume nobody'll have bodyguards besides Roy Cos.
That rule was made with him in mind. From what I hear, they average
two attempts on his life a day, the poor bastard."
They headed for the door. "Yeah," Hamp growled. "Every hit man in
Mercenaries, Incorporated has zeroed in on him."
They went out onto the street and headed for the Assembly Halls, a
commercial building devoted to a score of rentable halls ranging from a
large auditorium to small lecture rooms that would hold audiences of
fifty or so.
Max was eyeing his companion strangely. "How do you know?" he said.
Hamp covered. "Just guessing. It makes sense. It's not just that
insurance conglomerate that wrote the Deathwish Policy now. Poor Cos
has everybody and his nephew down on him—the United Church, the
government of every country in the world that fears revolutionary
change, the World Club, God knows who else. He's the sorest thumb to
show up for many a year."
Max said, frowning, "Why the World Club?"
The black shrugged. "They want a World State, but under their wing—
not the kind he's agitating for."
As they got nearer to the building in which the meeting was to be held,
the crowd began to manifest itself. There were several police cars,
lights flickering above them, a police ambulance, and a contingent of
uniformed police stationed across the street from the entrance to the
halls. There was also one Tri-Di unit mounted atop a truck, and a couple
of hundred curiosity seekers, gawking. Among them were twenty-five or
so teenagers of both sexes, each carrying a child's baseball bat. These
latter were dressed identically in prole clothing—sweaters and denim
shorts.
Hamp said, "Not much of a turnout when you consider Cos is exposing
himself. I'd think there'd be thousands."
Max said cynically, "The news media has been given orders to play down
the Deathwish Wobbly. They can't ignore him entirely, news being
news, and the fact that he might get burned any minute. But they're
trying to ease coverage on him and especially this meeting. Every
radical organization going, no matter how zany, is on Roy Cos's
bandwagon, whether he wants them or not. Everybody's beginning to
have second thoughts about whether basic changes ought to be made in
the world's socioeconomic systems, even in the Soviet Complex and the
People's Republic of China."
They came up to the entry to the halls, just as two heavy limousines slid
quickly to the curb immediately before them.
"Cos," Max grunted.
Four men, Gyrojets swinging from their hips in quick-draw holsters,
sprang from the first vehicle and immediately dashed back to surround
the second one, each of them at a corner. Their hands rested on their
guns and their eyes were never still as they scanned the crowd, not
excluding the police or the Tri-Di crew. Two of the doors of the second
limo opened and three more guards erupted. They immediately
stationed themselves between the car and the entry, and they too had
their hands on pistol butts. The teenagers with the baseball bats
pressed closer, between the guards and the building entrance.
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
modern 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
Sekigun, 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
multimillionaire 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!"
"I$o, 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.
Forty 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 ran 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 pseudo-dollars 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 granted 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 dele-gates, 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.
Tbe 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 one 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."
Hamp didn't like that but he accepted it. He said, "That's only the
Jews."
Roy made a gesture of contempt. "It'd be a lot of others, too. Racism
isn't an accident, it's deliberately fostered in a class society. When
there aren't enough good jobs to go around, then it's handy for a ruling
class to have the proles fight among themselves. Supposedly the reason
the blacks can't get decent jobs is because the whites take them all,
and whites say they can't get jobs because the blacks are moving in on
them, or the Chicanes, or the Orientals, or whoever. Divide and rule.
Keep the proles at each other's throats so they'll never sit down and
figure out that they have a common enemy."
Hamp said in disgust, "You people have one-track minds. Whatever's
wrong, you blame it on the socioeconomic system."
"That's where the blame usually is," Roy said, obviously too soulweary
to want to argue. "The proles go out to fight their war, division by
division. One division carries a banner inscribed Pacifism, another
Women's Lib, another All Power to the Worker's Councils, another
Down with Racism, another Clean Up the Environment, End Pollution, and
on and on.
None of them seem to see that basically it's the same war and that if
they unite their divisions they'd have an army, instead of going out
separately—and down to defeat."
Hamp said, "Probably a good simile. But now we get to the real reason I
came up here tonight. That Deathwish Policy of yours. Are there any
provisions restricting your travel?"
Roy looked at him and shook his head. "None at all. I can go anywhere in
the world that I want."
"I wasn't thinking about the world. I was thinking about Lagrange Five,
or, better still, the Asteroid Belt Islands."
All of them were gaping at him now.
Hamp said to Roy, "Look, basically you've done what you started out to
do. You've brought to the attention of the whole world the program of
the Wobblies. People are digesting it. Whether or not they'll buy it is
another thing. I'm inclined to doubt it. As it stands now, your time is
probably limited to hours. The Graf's hit men are the most experienced
on Earth and now, I believe, they're all concentrated on you—all of
them in this country, at least. So you take off from the Space
Shuttleport in New Mexico for Space Station Goddard. There you
transfer to a shuttle headed for Island One of the La-grange Five
Project. From there you take the next ore freighter to the Asteroid
Belt, select an Island most suited to your needs, and spend the rest of
your life there, probably bankrupting whatever damned company signed
that Deathwish Policy of yours."
Billy said doubtfully, though liking it, "Okay. But then he doesn't get
the message over."
Hamp glowered at him. "Damn it, he's already got the message over. But
he can continue spouting his propaganda from the Belt! All he has to do
is tape his talks and beam them back Earthside for broadcasting.
Besides that, he'd have lots of time on his hands. He wouldn't be
leading the life of a hunted animal. He could write a book about the
Wobbly program. He could turn out a raft of pamphlets and articles."
"Good grief," Mary Ann said, her eyes wide. She looked at her lover,
who was still staring at the black man. There was hope in her face.
Hamp said, urgency in his voice, "Don't you see? You'd be safe out
there. Among other things, there are no hit men flitting around on the
Islands. It takes all the clearance in the world to get into space at all.
And it takes a full year for a spacecraft to get from Lagrange Five to
the Asteroid Belt, which is halfway to Jupiter. If one of the Grafs men
tried to get through to you, they'd have him spotted months before he
ever arrived. And he'd be well aware of the fact that even if he did get
through and did you in, there'd be no way he could get safely back.
Lagrangists are a rough and ready lot."
Billy said, "If Roy goes, Les and I go too, and probably Ron, just to be
sure."
Mary Ann nodded. "And so do I."
Roy took a deep, tired breath and said, "None of us goes." He turned
his eyes to Hamp. "Thanks for the good intentions but the restrictions
on going into space are endless. You've got to have some ability that
they need out there. You've got to be a scientist, or some kind of
technician or highly experienced worker in construction, or electronics,
or whatever. I don't have any such ability, and I doubt if any of the
rest of us here do. One of their strictest requirements is that you have
an I.Q. of at least 130. I don't. You have to have a far above average
Ability Quotient. I don't. I'd be a parasite out there, even if they'd let
me come, which they wouldn't."
All eyes went back to Hamp. Mary Ann's were sick, as though he had
overfed a false hope.
"That's where I come in," Hamp said. He brought forth his pocket
transceiver, activated it, and said, "Information? Put me through to Ian
Venner of the Lagrangia Asteroid Belt Federation. He is now in New
York as their representative."
He waited long moments for the connection to be put through. Silence
permeated the suite's living room.
There came a tiny voice from the transceiver and Hamp said, "Venner?
This is Auburn. I'm calling you about that favor sooner than I had
expected."
He paused, then said, "Good. I am in the company of Roy Cos. Perhaps
you have heard of the Deathwish Wobbly. Yes, that's him. I want him,
and several of his friends, to become space colonists in the Belt. They
won't meet your usual requirements. They will undoubtedly remain for
the rest of their lives, unless some very basic changes take place here
Earthside."
He listened for long moments, then said, "Wizard. Oh, Venner? I
consider your obligation to me now terminated. Thanks and goodbye."
He switched off the communicator and looked back at Roy. He said
softly, "If you can make it to the Shuttleport, Venner's people will take
over there."
The Wobbly organizer's lips were pale.
It was then the phone screen buzzed. Mary Ann, in a daze, went to it.
She said blankly, "It's Ron, at the hospital."
Billy got it out first. "How's Forry?"
But Mary Ann was listening, shaking her head as though in disbelief.
Finally, she switched the screen off.
She turned back to them and said simply, "He—didn't make it. And
then, "It wasn't a heart attack. It was murder."
"It couldn't have been," Roy blurted. "I was right there!"
Mary Ann said emptily, "Something long, very thin, very sharp.
Something like an antique woman's hatpin. Stuck up through the
diaphragm, perforating the heart and flooding it with blood."
"He would have yelled," Les said in utter disbelief.
She said, "Maybe. But from what the doctors told Ron, at first he'd
only feel mild discomfort, and especially if he had any lung or stomach
or digestive disorders, he wouldn't particularly have noticed the pain.
But then the pressure would slow the heart down until it stopped. He'd
feel faint, breathless, dizzy, as though he'd had a small aortal attack.
He'd be dead in five minutes."
Roy said emptily, "It was meant for me."
Hamp stood up and looked at the Wobbly organizer. "No. It was meant
for Forrest Brown. The guards were too tight around you. It's gotten
to the point where the Graf's men are out to get anybody associated
with you, anybody helping you." He looked at Roy Cos's secretary.
"Including Ms. Elwyn. That's why you'd better make a beeline for that
shuttleport in New Mexico, Cos."
Roy Cos stood too, and said, "What's all this to you, Hampton? I don't
even know you. Certainly, you're no Wobbly. But you've gone far out of
your way to extend a life I'd given up."
Hamp tossed his head, brushing it off. "You're a man, Cos, and I believe
in a man having a chance to have his say.
What was the quote of Voltaire? 'I disagree with what you say but will
defend with my life your right to say it.' A lot of your program doesn't
come through to me. For one thing, I think you're out of the times.
Maybe, up there in the Belt, you'll learn some things and update what
you stand for. And maybe—just maybe—they'll learn some things from
you."
Chapter Twenty-Two: Jeremiah Auburn_____
Hamp stood before the identity screen on the hotel door and looked at
it sardonically. The door buzzed open and he entered. The room was on
the small, austere side considering that this was the age-old
prestigious Drake.
Frank Pinell was seated, watching a news commentator. Now he took in
the chocolate features of the newcomer without expression. Without
waiting for an invitation, Hamp went over to the autobar and dialed
himself a double brandy. He brought the snifter glass back and settled
himself into the room's second chair.
Frank reached over to click the screen off but Hamp said, "No, just a
minute. What's he saying?"
The commentator was saying, "… and if the victim's identification is
genuine, the notorious Luca Cellini, long suspected by the IABI to be
Lothar von Brandenburg's top representative in the Americas, has been
shot to death on the streets of New York."
"I'll be damned," Hamp said. "Peter Windsor is even more efficient
than I thought."
The younger man had been staring bug-eyed at the commentator. Now
he shakily reached out and turned down the audio. He sucked in air
before saying to the black, "You know Peter Windsor?"
"Yes. One of the most competent snakes this side of the Garden of
Eden. How he learned that Cellini had sold out, I'll probably never
know."
"Sold out?" Frank said. "I… I was just talking to him a few days ago."
"Yes, I know," Hamp said, taking an appreciative sip of his cognac. "He
was how I found out that Windsor and the Graf had sent you to finish
me off."
Frank said, a touch of irritation in his voice, "If you knew that, why in
the devil have you come here? Aren't you afraid I'll carry out the
assignment?"
"No," Hamp said. "Why did they send you?"
"I'm not too clear about the details. Evidently, it was more or less a
standard assignment. Somebody in the World Club wanted you
eliminated."
Hamp stared at him. "The World Club! Wanted Horace Hampton
eliminated?"
"Yes. If I understand correctly, they're becoming increasingly
conscious of the part the Anti-Racist League might play when the
World State begins to embrace third-world countries."
"But why me? I'm not even a member of the Executive Committee. Just
a field worker."
"If I have it right, there are some strange angles to your Dossier
Complete. You're kind of a mystery figure. You're also said to be the
Anti-Racist League's most efficient man. Somebody figured that if half
a dozen of your key members were eliminated, it would be considerably
easier to control the organization."
"I'll be damned," Hamp said thoughtfully. He finished his brandy, went
back to the autobar and dialed another. He looked at his reluctant host.
"Want a drink? It's a pleasure for me to be knocking back guzzle that
the Graf will eventually pay for."
"Beer," Frank said.
Hamp dialed the brew, brought it over, and resumed his own place.
Frank said cautiously, "Why did you think I wasn't a danger to you?"
"Because you're a fake. When I told you I own the bank your father
used in Berne, I wasn't joking. I own controlling interests in various
other banks as well. When Cellini told me you'd been sent to hit me, I
had you checked out and then your father as well."
"All right, great. But why do you say I'm a fake?"
"You were deported, picking Tangier. Tangier is the biggest base of
Mercenaries, Incorporated outside Liechtenstein. Anybody wanting to
make contact with the organization couldn't do better than to go there.
You were deported because you had supposedly committed four felonies
and the legal computers automatically ordered your deportation."
"What do you mean supposedly?" Frank said, his voice flat.
"The first two felonies, well, they were probably genuine. Certainly the
first one, back when you were a kid. Kind of a kid's prank which turned
sour. But the third one and the fourth? Nope; you faked them. The
murder, the crime that made it definite that you'd be deported, you
didn't commit. You confessed to it, but you didn't do it. The way my
agents reconstructed the thing, you hung around in the most rugged
area of Detroit, possibly the toughest big city in the country, during
the most dangerous time of night, for a period of weeks. Eventually,
you found what you were looking for, a fresh corpse. You set the stage
for getting the blame and you got it, guaranteeing deportation." Hamp
took another pull at his brandy. "You're no killer, Pinell. It was all a
scheme to get next to the Graf and it evidently worked out even better
than you must have hoped."
Frank glared at him. "Why would I do that?"
Hamp shrugged. "It would seem obvious that you want to get your hands
on that money your father left. Forty-five million pseudo-dollars isn't
chicken feed—not a poultry sum, as the expression goes."
The younger man ignored the pun and said sullenly, "I had no idea it was
that much."
"It wasn't originally, but it's been sitting there in Berne for almost
twenty years, invested in Swiss gilt-edged securities."
"It's my money," Frank said. "I didn't even know about it until my
mother told me on her deathbed. She hated the very thought of the
stuff but she hated the Graf even more and didn't want him to get his
hands on it. I'm my father's only living relative. My mother suspected,
but had no proof, that my father was killed by the Graf. The last time
she saw him, he hinted that they were on the outs with each other. My
father, it would seem, didn't like some of the new fields into which
Brandenburg was expanding. My father was a soldier of fortune, not a
hit man."
The black eyed him questioningly. "Why didn't you just go to
Switzerland and demand your inheritance?"
"It's tied up in some complicated way I don't understand.
Evidently, my father was on the way to change that when he was killed.
I'm not sure about the details but I suspect that the Graf is part of
the complication."
"If Lothar von Brandenburg could get his hands on that money, he
would. The sonofabitch is just about bankrupt now. His overhead is
astronomical. With your father's money he could retire, or do just
about anything else he wanted to do."
"That's what I've suspected, damn it. I think there must be some kind
of requirement that both of us must appear, or sign something, before
either can get his hands on the amount."
"So what the hell are you doing tailing me around? By the way, didn't
Windsor tell you I'm supposed to be a little on the dangerous side?
You're a bit inexperienced when it comes to taking me on."
"I don't think Peter Windsor is in on it. I don't think the Graf has told
anybody about it, not even Margit Krebs, his secretarial thinking
machine." Frank finished his beer and put the glass down. "The Graf put
on a big show of friendship. Welcomed me with open arms as the son of
his best friend. The implication is that I'm now one of the inner circle
and they're breaking me in to the workings of the organization."
"And this is your first, uh, assignment, eh?"
"Not exactly. They sent me along with one of their top operatives to
see a competitor named Rivas in Paris. He was invited to join up, or else.
He turned down the offer, mentioning in passing that he thought the
Graf was responsible for my father's death."
"What happened?"
"It would seem that Windsor, or somebody, had bribed all of Rivas's
people out from under him. His bodyguard knifed him to death."
Hamp looked at him in surprise. "And you participated in a thing like
that?" His tone turned sardonic. "A nice clean-cut boy like you?"
Frank flushed. "Listen," he said. "I'm not as much of a milksop as you
seem to think. As far as I'm concerned, Rivas was no better than Nat
Fraser, the hit man who arranged his death. Nor Peter Windsor, the
Graf, nor any of the others. I didn't mind seeing him killed at all. Not
at all! He was a professional dealer in death. He was the type of man
that I
would have no moral reserves about seeing killed—or given the
circumstances, doing it myself."
Hamp pursed his lips and chuckled before getting up and heading for
the bar again. "Another beer?" he said.
"No thanks," Frank said nastily. "And you act as though you're half
drenched already."
"The complaint has been made before," Hamp told him, dialing another
double brandy. "But I can still operate."
"And I've heard that story before," the younger man told him in
sarcasm. "Sometimes from drivers who explain that they can drive
better when they have a couple of drinks in them. Famous last words
before they plow into a tree. You're on the death list of the most
dangerous people in the world and here you are getting drenched. Hell,
even I could take you and, as you so nicely explained, I'm
inexperienced."
"Don't try it," Hamp said mildly, taking a pull at the double brandy. "But
now we get to the nitty-gritty. What were you doing at the Synthesis
meeting if you're not really interested in doing chores for the Graf?"
"I had to go through the motions," Frank said, all fed up with the
conversation. "I had to look as though I was trying to get to you. For all
I know, some of Peter Windsor's other people were there."
"They were," Hamp told him. "What the hell did you mink you were going
to do to put over your act?''
"I don't know," the other said. "I was trying to play it by ear, hoping
something would come up that would enable me to report back,
admitting failure but for some good reason. I have to stay in the game,
supposedly in the Graf's good graces, until I can find out what's going
on. I haven't the vaguest idea, so far, what kind of hold he has on my
father's fortune."
Hamp thought about it some more. He said finally, "The reason the Graf
was willing to send you after me was that he wanted to get something
to hold over you. Some lever that would help him persuade you to do
whatever has to be done to get his hands on your father's fortune. If
you'd killed me, as ordered, then he'd have had his lever." He knocked
back the remaining brandy in one gulp and added, "I just dropped in to
let you know I was onto you and to warn you to stay off my back. So
now I'll… what the hell was that?"
"What was what?"
"That news commentator. What did he say?"
"I haven't been listening."
"Play it back. The last couple of minutes."
"All right." Frank shrugged, pressed the replay buttons, and turned up
the volume.
He missed the first sentence or so. The commentator was saying, "…
the famous rocket-set leader, of recent years turned recluse.
Indications are, his sports car left the road, either forced off as
suggested by the French authorities, or out of control as a result of
overindulgence in alcohol or narcotics at a party he had just left.
Executives of the far-flung Auburn empire have thus far issued no
statement. Wall Street in the City, London, and the Common Europe
Bourse are expected to react heavily in the morning."
Horace Hampton, staring unseeingly, staggered to his feet and headed
for the autobar. He demanded of the other, "Play that back again, from
the beginning."
Frank Pinell, his expression denoting complete lack of comprehension,
obeyed.
The commentator said, "Flash from the French Riviera. The
multibillionaire playboy of this century, Jeremiah Auburn, died today in
a car accident near Nice when…"
"Switch it off," Hamp yelled.
Frank obeyed, staring blankly.
The black sank back into his chair. He swallowed the drink in one gulp.
"Jim," he said, meaninglessly, so far as the other was concerned.
"What the hell's the matter?" Frank said.
"Shut up." The black sat there, staring unseeingly. "Jim," he muttered.
"Oh, hell, Jim. Why was I such an asshole? I laid you wide open to that
murderous bastard Windsor."
"What the devil are you talking about?" Frank said.
"Shut up."
Frank Pinell twisted his mouth in resignation and got up to get himself
another beer. He hadn't the vaguest idea what had floored his visitor.
Evidently, some bigshot playboy had a traffic accident in southern
France. So what? He didn't follow the social news by any means but he
had vaguely heard of Jeremiah Auburn, one of those upper-class
characters who would spend five thousand on a bottle of wine laid down
during the time of DeGaulle. Frank had never paid more than five
dollars in his life for a bottle of wine, and then he was splurging.
At long last Hamp shook his head, as though in despair, and got up and
went over to the room's small desk. He sat down in front of the phone
screen and deactivated the video before dialing.
The face that faded in on the screen looked as though it had recently
received a great shock.
Hamp said, "Barry, this is Auburn."
The eyes widened in absolute disbelief. "But… but… on the news I
just…"
"I know, I know. So did I. A case of mistaken identity, undoubtedly.
Now, this is what I want you to do: refuse any comment to the news
media whatsoever. For the time being, above all, don't let it get out
that I am still alive. To nobody, understand?"
"Well, yes sir." And then, a touch of suspicion there. "How do I know
this is really you?"
"Damn it, you know my voice. Besides, who else has access to this phone
number?"
"I… yes, sir." There was relief in the tone now.
"Wizard. Now, I want you to send Captain Wayland and the plane to
pick up two men here at the Chicago North Side Airport. He is to fly
them to Europe and the crew is to take their orders as though they
were my own. The men's names are Horace Hampton and Franklin Pinell.
They will make only one stop, in New York. Mr. Hampton will leave the
aircraft just long enough to go into the city and acquire some, uh,
equipment at my headquarters there. Have a limousine waiting for him
at the airport. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. A Mr. Hampton and a Mr. Pinell."
"That's all, Barry. I'll get in touch with you shortly. Meanwhile, mum's
the word." He flicked off the phone and turned back to Frank. "Pack
your luggage," he said.
The other had been completely flabbergasted by the phone talk. He
hadn't any idea whatever of what had gone on. He said, "Why?"
Hamp went back to the bar and dialed another drink. He said, "We're
going to Liechtenstein to see the Graf and my old chum-pal Peter
Windsor."
The younger man ogled him. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Probably, but your orders were to get Horace Hampton. Wizard;
you've got him. He's going back to the Wolfschloss with you." The
autobar delivered a full liter of French cognac. Hamp took the top off
and applied the bottle directly to his mouth. He then retopped it and
handed it to Frank. "Put this in your bag. I won't be taking any luggage."
Frank was still gaping at him. "Bringing you back to the Wolfschloss!
Now I know you're completely around the bend, Hampton. That place is
a fort. You can't get in carrying any kind of a weapon and once in
there's no way of getting out. The Graf will have you by the balls. And
probably me as well."
Hamp shook his head. "No. Your story is that I had something
interesting to tell you and wanted to relay it to Brandenburg himself.
And I'll have the most powerful weapon in the world to take into that
fort."
"What? I tell you, they search you all ways from Tuesday, both
electronically and physically."
"My weapon comes in a checkbook. Come on, let's get out of here.
Wayland will be at the airport by the time we arrive."
The pilot checked their identities with care, obviously somewhat taken
aback by this assignment. However, there was nothing to fault them. He
handed back the International Credit Cards, saying with a frown to
Hamp, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
"I doubt it," Hamp said laconically. "I've never been there."
"Yes, sir," Wayland said, touching the visor of his cap in an informal
salute. "What are your orders, aside from the stop-over in New York?"
"Fly to the airport nearest to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein."
"Yes, sir. That'll probably be in Austria."
"And while we're on the way, call ahead and have a vehicle waiting for
us, with any clearance that might be required to enter Liechtenstein."
"Yes, sir. I'll check that out. Gentlemen, shall we go aboard?"
To Frank Pinell's absolute surprise, the black seemed to drink himself
sober on the flight across the Atlantic. The bar on the huge aircraft
was more elaborate than any Frank had seen anywhere and was
presided over by a uniformed bartender and two stewards to serve.
Hamp kept them earning their pay.
Frank found himself a stateroom and slept almost all of the way to
Austria. He had a suspicion that he was going to need all the rest he
could get. He didn't like the prospects for the morrow. When he
rejoined his companion, it was to find him sitting in the same chair in
the main lounge. Whether or not he had gotten any sleep at all, Frank
couldn't tell. If anything, he looked less under the influence of the
liquor he had been drinking than he had back in the room at the Drake.
There was a new shift of bartender and waiters waiting on him.
Even as Frank seated himself, the chief steward entered and said
respectfully, "We shall be landing within the hour, gentlemen."
Hamp looked down at himself. "I suppose I ought to have a change of
clothing," he said. He was dressed in a cheap suit, just above prole
quality.
The chief steward said, "But, sir, we didn't pick up any luggage for you.
The other gentleman, yes. But you came aboard without any bags at all."
The black came to his feet. He said sourly, "I suspect that Mr.
Auburn's things will fit me."
The steward goggled. "Mr. Auburn's things?"
Hamp eyed him. "Weren't your orders to take my instructions as
though they were those of your employer himself?"
"Why… yes, sir."
"Wizard. I'll go and check out his clothes." Hamp started for the
corridor which led down to the aircraft's staterooms.
The chief steward, still looking distressed, called after him, "The
master suite is at the far end of…"
"Yeah, yeah," Hamp muttered.
At Feldkirch it was found that there were no difficulties involved in
driving the sports hover-car that was waiting to take them into the tiny
principality. They took off, Frank driving, Hamp next to him with
brandy bottle in hand, taking an occasional nip from it.
When they reached Vaduz and began driving out the road to the
Wolfschloss which loomed before them on the mountain top, Hamp said,
"You'd better call ahead and tell them we're coming. From what I've
heard about this place, you run a chance of getting your ass shot off if
you approach unannounced."
"Don't you know it," Frank told him, bringing out his transceiver. He
went through the routine of dialing the special number Peter Windsor
had given him.
When the Englishman's easygoing face appeared on the tiny screen, it
was to express surprise. "Frank!" he said. "I say, this isn't an overseas
call. Where are you?"
"Coming up on the schloss," Frank told him.
"Then… well, you completed your mission?"
"In a way," Frank said. "I've got Hampton with me."
That made Peter Windsor blink.
Frank redirected the transceiver so that the face of Hamp was shown
to Windsor. He said dryly, "Peter Windsor, meet Horace Hampton." And
then, before either of the others could speak, "I'm coming down the
road toward the cable car terminal, Peter. Do you want to clear me
through?"
"Of course, dear boy. Come immediately to my office in the keep. Be
seeing you, old chap. Cheers." His face faded, still expressing
bewilderment.
"First hurdle," Hamp muttered. He put the half-empty bottle in the
glove compartment. "Reserve supply," he said. "We might need it later."
"If there is a later," Frank said glumly. They were approaching the first
roadblock, a concrete pillbox with three armed men before it. Frank
began to pull up but they smiled and waved him on.
Hamp said, "This inner circle you mentioned that you're now being
admitted to: who's in it besides the Graf and Windsor?"
"The only one I've met, if there are any others, is Margit Krebs, the
Graf's secretary and data bank."
Hamp looked over at him.
Frank said, "She's got complete recall and keeps most of his secrets in
her head."
"Nobody else is in this inner circle?"
"Not that I know of. When they're having a conference, the butler,
Sepp, is sometimes around and they don't seem to care. He told me my
father once saved his life—and warned me about all three of them."
"Sounds like quite a chummy crew," Hamp said. "How long before we
start talking to the Graf?"
"If they see us right on through, possibly twenty minutes or so."
"Wizard," the black said and reached into his jacket. He brought forth
a container which looked something like a cigarette case, opened it, and
took out a hypodermic while Frank looked at him in dismay. Wordlessly,
Hamp rolled up his left sleeve and expertly took the contents of the
hypodermic into his arm. He then threw the syringe out the window.
Frank said bitterly, "Fer chrissakes, Hampton, isn't all that guzzle
enough?"
"Thanks for reminding me," the other told him and opened the glove
compartment for a pull at the bottle there.
They pulled up before the cable car terminal and got out of the vehicle,
met immediately by a smiling officer.
He saluted and said, "Welcome back to the Wolfschloss, Mr. Pinell. I'm
Lieutenant Lugos. Mr. Windsor has instructed me to see you to the
donjon.'' He looked Hamp up and down.
Frank said, "This is Mr. Hampton. My luggage is in the back. There's a
gun in it."
"Yes, sir. We'll take care of it." The lieutenant turned and led the way.
Horace Hampton seemed only mildly interested in the routine of being
admitted to the Wolfschloss, the identity checks, the searches, the
cable car ride. And didn't even seem particularly interested when they
entered the enceinte in the direction of the towering keep.
Lieutenant Lugos was walking ahead and Frank said, from the side of his
mouth, "You act as though you've been here before."
The other shook his head. "No, but I had some of my agents check it
out once. They got good video sequences."
"Even inside the keep?"
"On the lower floors. Not up in the living quarters of the Graf. One
tried and didn't make it."
The younger man stared, "What happened to him?"
"Peter Windsor happened to him. He was caught, tortured, put under
scopolamine and, of course, spilled his guts."
"How do you know?"
"Windsor dropped a hint to me the next time I saw him. Happily, the
others had gotten away before the captured one could inform on them.
Our chum-pal, Peter, evidently was more amused by my curiosity than
anything else. I suppose the Wolfschloss has been infiltrated before."
They had no more difficulty in entering the donjon than they'd had at
the cable car terminal. Five minutes after Lieutenant Lugos
surrendered them to the guard at the keep's massive door, they had
entered the office of Peter Windsor.
The Graf's right-hand man was, characteristically, lounging in well-worn
sports clothes behind his desk, his feet up on its surface. He grinned
affably and said as he stood, "I say, Pinell, you're full of surprises." He
looked at Hamp and frowned slightly. "Haven't I seen you before,
somewhere?"
"People keep asking me that," Hamp said. "I must look like some
celebrity."
Peter Windsor shrugged. "No point in mucking around, Hampton. What
was your idea in coming here? Doesn't make much sense, really."
"I thought I'd explain that directly to the Graf," Hamp told him. His
eyes went around the room, in curiosity, not missing the submachine gun
on the wall.
"I dare say that's a good idea," Windsor said, lazily coming to his feet.
"Come along, you chaps, Lothar is expecting us."
He led the way down the winding corridor to the Grafs office.
When they entered the spacious office of Lothar von Brandenburg, it
was to find the Graf and Margit Krebs seated in the same chairs as
during Frank's original interview. To top it, after offhanded
introductions, during which no one made any pretense of desire to
shake hands, Peter Windsor slumped into the chair he had utilized on
the first occasion Frank had met the inner circle. Frank and Hamp sat
too, on the same couch but at opposite ends.
For a few moments all was silent as Hamp took in the three of them and
they returned the compliment.
The Graf said finally, "To be candid, this confrontation surprises me. I
haven't the vaguest idea what you had in mind, Franklin." He turned
smoky, expressionless eyes to the black. "Nor you, sir. Will one of you
explain?" He looked back at Frank and added, "Not, of course, that I
distrust your judgment and discretion, my boy."
"Of course not," Peter said dryly.
Hamp said, "I came to make a deal."
The gray-flecked, uncanny irises turned back to him. "Indeed? Please
develop it. I am always interested in deals."
"Wizard," Hamp said. His dark eyes took in the short elderly mercenary
and they were almost as unreadable as the old man's. "Brandenburg," he
went on finally, "you've got a tiger by the tail. You've built up an empire
and now you can't abdicate. You're just on the verge of being dead
broke and you can't get out from under. The upkeep on this pile of rock
alone must be astronomical and that's not counting your other
establishments scattered around the world, and it doesn't count the
compensations and pensions you're under obligation to keep up. One of
these days, you're going to miss a payroll. When you do—well, the
people on your payroll are the most dangerous killers in the world."
"What rot," Peter drawled.
"Silence, Peter," the Graf told him without looking in his direction. He
said to Hamp, "Since nothing that is said in this room this morning will
ever go beyond its walls, we might as well be completely free. What has
given you cause to believe me less than—ah, solvent? My interests are
widespread."
"So are mine," Hamp said flatly. "I have sources and I have my common
sense besides. Mercenary use has been declining for decades. So have
clandestine sales of arms. The citizens of smaller nations are in revolt
against their governments so far as military purchases are concerned.
They've had a bellyful of it for a century or so. They're also getting a
bellyful of assassinations and terrorism. All sorts of inquiries are going
out about you and your activities. And this Roy Cos affair is almost sure
to wind up with Deathwish Policies declared illegal on a worldwide basis,
especially if and when the United States becomes the United States of
the World. To sum it up, your business is melting away, Brandenburg."
"I see," the Graf nodded agreeably. "I am amazed at your interest in
my affairs. But let us delve into it a bit further. Would it surprise you
to learn that my plans include joining the upper echelons of the World
Club and participating, along with my organization, in the World State?"
The Grafs emotionless voice held a touch of smugness.
Hamp shook his head definitely. "No. Not after last night. And not on
top of Harold Dunninger."
The old man's voice was now ice. "What about Harold Dunninger?"
"It's come out that you were behind his kidnapping and death. That you
wished this candidate eliminated so that you would be able to assume
Central Committee membership. But last night you went too far."
The Graf looked over at Margit Krebs, scowling. "What happened last
night?"
Peter said quickly, "I was going to bring that up at our morning meeting,
Lothar." He cleared his throat. "I fancied that you'd be surprised.
Jeremiah Auburn has been reported killed in a vehicle crackup on the
French Riviera. An accident, I imagine."
"No accident," Hamp said. "And the Central Committee isn't going to
stand for one of its members being coldly murdered for opposing you.
Your name will be mud in the World Club, Brandenburg."
The old man hadn't taken his eyes from his top aide. "Why wasn't I
informed about this?" he demanded.
"I told you, Chief. I was going to bring it up this morning, don't you
know? A bit of bad luck, wasn't it?" Windsor's eyes went from his
employer to Hamp and then quickly back again. "You're not taking this
bloody fool's word against mine, are you? He's obviously up to
something, but the silly ass has put himself into our hands. We'll show
him what the drill is around here. A bit of scopolamine and we'll find
out what he's all about."
"You must think me a dolt, Peter," the Graf said coldly.
All his languid pretenses were gone. Peter Windsor shot to his feet, his
face in a fury. He turned red and stalked from the room.
The Graf said to Margit, who had been sitting quietly through all of
this, "Our Peter seems a bit impetuous these days, Fraulein."
"I'd noticed it," she said without inflection.
The Graf turned back to Hamp. "You mentioned a deal. I
confess I haven't the vaguest idea of what you might have in mind."
Hamp said, "Frank, here, was left a sizeable estate by his father. It's
in the hands of a Berne bank, almost forty-five million pseudo-dollars in
the form of immediately convertible securities. First, you will
cooperate in securing the inheritance for him."
The Graf gave one of his humorless chuckles. "I have never heard of
such a thing." He turned to Margit. "Have you, Fraulein?"
But Margit failed to take the cue. "Yes," she said deliberately. Her
eyes seemed to glaze slightly. "Its provisions are that the fortune be
turned over to Franklin Pinell when he reaches the age of thirty. Until
that time, he would be able to acquire it only with your permission. Both
of you would have to appear in Berne to testify. If he should die before
reaching thirty, the fortune goes to various American charities. If you
should die before he reaches thirty, then the fortune reverts to him,
as soon as he has reached twenty-one—which, of course, he already has
done."
For once, the Graf lost his aplomb. He glared at her, started to speak,
and then stopped himself. He turned back to Hamp and said firmly,
"That doesn't sound like a deal to me, Herr Hampton."
Hamp said, "That's just the beginning. Is there a drink around here?"
Frank groaned low protest but continued to hold his peace. He was
almost completely at sea.
Somehow, the Graf must have signalled, since Sepp materialized at a
door leading to the back. He bowed and said, "Bine, Herr Graf!"
The mercenary head looked at Hamp, who said, "Cognac, preferably."
Frank sucked breath in and groaned again.
The Graf said, "A bottle of the Grand Champagne cognac, the
V.V.S.O.P., Sepp, and a glass."
"Bitte." The servant bowed and turned, his limp barely perceptible.
"He won't need the goddamn glass," Frank muttered.
While Sepp was gone, Margit looked at Hamp strangely.
She said, "For some reason, I get the impression that your complexion
is lighter than I had at first thought."
Hamp said, offhandedly, "Few American blacks are full-blooded. We
have been interbreeding for centuries. One of my grandmothers was a
Scot. Before that, I have no idea how many of my ancestors were at
least partly white."
"But—your skin," she said, frowning.
"That will be all, Fraulein," the Graf growled.
Sepp entered with an ancient squat bottle and a glass centered on a
gold tray. He set the tray on the end table next to the couch on which
Hamp sat. The cork had already been removed. Hamp poured with
satisfaction. Sepp bowed and withdrew.
Hamp sampled the aged cognac with his nose and sighed. "Damn good
brandy," he said, sipping.
Frank rolled his eyes upward in appeal to greater powers.
Lothar von Brandenburg said coldly, "And now, sir, we come to the
balance of your deal."
It was then that Peter Windsor re-entered the room. He carried his
submachine gun. With all eyes upon him, he took a chair, one that
dominated the room.
"That would hardly seem necessary, Peter," the Graf said.
"I jolly well hope not, Chief, but I don't like these two."
The Graf shrugged it off and looked back at Hamp. "Well.sir?"
Hamp said, "When Frank receives his inheritance, I will turn over to you
fifty million pseudo-dollars. With it, you can settle down in Switzerland,
or wherever else you choose, and announce the, ah, bankruptcy of
Mercenaries, Incorporated and your retirement. I would suggest that
you take along a dozen or so of your best men, although in Switzerland
you should be quite safe. For centuries, avidly sought politicians and
others have retired there in high-security villas and lived their lives out
in safety."
"Fifty million pseudo-dollars!"
"Take it or leave it," Hamp said, pouring more brandy.
The mercenary head scoffed. "I have never even heard of a black,
anywhere in the world, who commanded that amount of credit."
Peter looked at Hamp and said, "You look paler," as though unbelieving.
"And I still think you look like some-body I've met before. And your
voice, too…" He let the sentence dribble away.
The Graf said, "Please, Peter, do be quiet. Well, sir?" This last to Hamp.
Hamp reached into his pocket, brought forth a folder, and tossed it to
Margit's lap. "A numbered account in the Grundsbank, in Geneva. Check
the balance."
Margit, her face unrevealing as usual while on duty, went to a set of
drawers against the wall and opened one of the top ones. Her back was
to them. There seemed to be no question but that the Graf was in a
position to check the balance of even a numbered account.
After a few minutes of pregnant silence, she turned and said, "The
account is considerably higher than the amount mentioned."
The Graf, much of his commanding presence erased, said, breathing
deeply, "What else? Confound it, I know there is something else!"
"Oh, yes," Hamp told him, putting down his glass. He bent forward and
removed his contact lenses. His eyes, which he directed at Peter
Windsor, were a dark blue. "Surprise, surprise," he said. "Show me a
bathroom and I'll get the black out of this hair. It looks even prettier,
reddish."
The Englishman goggled. "Jeremiah Auburn!" he croaked.
They were all staring now. His complexion was that of a tanned
southern European. He fished up into his nose with the nails of his little
fingers and brought forth two oval spreaders of metal, his nose losing
its broadness.
"But… the news broadcasts and the reports from my operatives…"
Windsor got out.
The Graf roared, "What in the name of God is going on!"
Jerry looked at him with all the emptiness of death in his eyes. He took
up the brandy bottle as though to pour again, but before he did he said,
"The man who was murdered on the Riviera last night was my brother,
James Auburn. You asked me what else; this is what else. I want the
man who ordered the death of my twin."
Peter Windsor was on his feet. He sneered, "Are you out of your bloody
mind?" He flicked the safety stud on the gun and held it at the ready,
but now he turned to his employer of many years. "You would have taken
him up, wouldn't you?
You would have sold us all out for his fifty million! Well, thank you very
much, but I'm taking over. You'll be washed up with the World Club, but
that won't reflect on me. There's still Chase and Moyer who'll back me.
And Sheila Duff-Roberts, who has more say about what goes on in the
Central Committee than anyone else. It was she who got together with
Harrington Chase and suggested the elimination of that McGivern girl
and then Auburn, here. She's with me. If I finished you off now,
Lothar, I can blame it on Auburn and Pinell and the organization won't
question it."
His eyes left the red face of the enraged Graf and went to Margit, who
had been sitting through it all, her face noncommittal. "Where do you
stand, Fraulein? With me, or with this has-been sod? I can use you in
taking over."
Margit cleared her throat softly. "Very dramatic, Peter, and ordinarily
I'd have to think about it, perhaps. But as things stand that gun is
inoperative."
He chopped out a vicious laugh. "An old trick, Margit old thing, but it
won't work. It's loaded, all right. I check that out every day or two. I
checked again just before I came back in here. You've taken your
stand, you bloody fool."
Margit said mildly, "I didn't say it wasn't loaded. I said it wasn't
operative. I didn't like to see the thing around, so I had Sepp take out
the firing pin, some time ago."
Peter Windsor swore and pulled the trigger. And then stared down in
dismay at the unresponding weapon.
The Graf was on his feet, spry for his age. He turned and dashed for a
small cabinet set up against the huge window which dominated the
whole side of the room. He grabbed for the top drawer.
But Peter, tennis-trim, bounded after him and, even as he went,
reversed the gun. The Graf spun, a small Gyro-jet pistol in hand. Too
late. Windsor crashed the gun butt into his solar plexus, sending him
reeling backward and into the window and, screaming shrilly, through it
in a shower of shards. His thin screams, unbecoming to one of the
Grafs image, continued as he plunged downward.
Sepp came into the room quietly, an antique 9mm Luger in his right
hand. He took in the scene, his Germanic face politely questioning, still
playing the obsequious butler.
Peter snapped, "Sepp, cover these two!" He waved his disabled
submachine gun at Frank and Jerry.
Sepp turned to Margit Krebs and his eyebrows went up. "Fraulein?" he
said.
"Shoot him," she said flatly. "He just killed the Graf. He'll do the same
to us, given the chance."
Peter Windsor yelled, "No!" even as Sepp brought up the automatic and
shot him exactly once in the middle of the chest.
Frank, walking like a robot, went over to the window through which
Lothar von Brandenburg had plunged. For the briefest of moments he
looked out over the superb view of mountain peaks and river. Then his
eyes went down.
He shook his head in nausea, pulled in air deeply, and said, "He's
splattered all over the side of the swimming pool. Five feet farther out
and he would have landed in the water.''
Jerry Auburn still bore the brandy bottle in his right hand.
Margit Krebs, efficient as always, went to a wall and pushed back a
curtain. Behind it was a microphone. She reached up and touched a
switch.
She said, very crisply, "Now hear this. Now hear this. Margit Krebs
speaking. The Graf is dead. Those of you near the swimming pool can
see his body. Peter Windsor is also dead. They killed each other. Now
hear this. Now hear this. The Graf, for reasons of his own, has had the
Wolfschloss mined. Within the hour, the schloss will go up. He has
thrown the switch. Time is short, but with discipline and complete
following of my instructions, we can all be saved. The cable car is
totally inadequate for evacuation in such short order. It will be utilized
only by the guards and crew who have been in control of it. All others
will descend into the bomb shelters and then through the tunnels to
the countryside. Women and the more elderly will use the elevators to
the bomb shelters. All in good physical trim will use the stairs. The
hospital will be evacuated; all patients and medical staff will use the
freight chopper to escape. The small jet will be reserved for the senior
staff. That is all. Remember, cooperation and discipline will enable us to
evacuate completely. Any deviation from my instructions will mean
disaster. We will rendezvous in Vaduz for final severance pay and
distribution of other funds coming to you. Carry on!" She turned back
to the others.
Jerry looked at her thoughtfully. "Are there such bombs?"
"No. But I had to clear them out of here before they got the idea of
looting."
"Will they believe you?"
"Yes," she said. "I've been in this job for ten years and I have never
lied to any member. I've built up an impeccable record of confidence.
Now I'm calling on it. They'll be shocked when I don't turn up at that
rendezvous in Vaduz." She looked at Sepp. "You'd better start packing
our, ah, luggage; we're heading for Tangier. No extradition there and
Interpol will be after us by tomorrow. We should be able to take eight
large bags. We four can carry two apiece down to the jet. We're not in
too much of a hurry. We want everyone else cleared out of the schloss
before we cross the enceinte carrying those bags. You might start with
that gold tray with the brandy, Sepp. For God's sake, don't forget any
of the paintings small enough to go into the bags; forget the others, no
matter how valuable. I'll go to the Grafs private rooms and to the wall
safe. I know the combination."
The impassive Sepp stuck his gun back into his clothing and, taking up
the gold tray, left the room.
Jerry said to her, "How do you know that any of us can fly a jet?"
She was unperturbed. "Frank, here, told us that he had studied to be a
pilot."
Jerry was looking at her in puzzlement. He said, "Why did you make the
choices you did?"
She shrugged. "It was all falling apart. You were right, the Graf was all
but bankrupt. I found out very early in my relationship with Lothar that
in this organization one looks out for oneself. Very well, I have looked
out for myself. Had your offer gone through, I might have gone along.
The Graf would probably have taken me into retirement with him. As it
turned out, when Peter went berserk, I had to play it by ear."
She turned and left.
Frank glared at Jerry Auburn. "You damn fool, suppose that gun hadn't
been jimmied? We'd all be dead."
The other grinned at him, a glint in his blue eyes. "Sometimes you have
to take chances. When I saw that gun on his wall, I decided that it was
useless. Sooner or later, here in the sanctum sanctorum of the Graf,
somebody would have done something to it. Besides, in narrow quarters
like this, you can often take a man with a gun before he can finish you
off. Why did you think I asked for this bottle of guzzle?" He grinned
again. "I'm a crack shot throwing a bottle."
Frank Pinell took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "How did you pull
off that skin-color change?"
The other shrugged. "For a long time we've had chemicals that can
change complexion, either lighter or darker. I've known blacks who
passed that way, and I once knew a white news reporter who circulated
among blacks getting inside information hard for a white man to
acquire. He turned himself darker. No big thing."
Frank said, "All right," again. Then, "Windsor got what was coming to
him. So did the Graf. I get my inheritance. Margit and Sepp get to loot
this place, which should enable them to retire, I suppose. What is there
for you, Jerry?"
The other shrugged it off. "For me, there's always the brandy bottle,"
he said, reaching down for it.
Aftermath
When Jerry Auburn stopped off at Lee Garrett's suite in the Palazzo
Colonna, she was gathering her things preparatory to a Central
Committee meeting.
She flashed him a smile and said, "Hello, darling. So you're back. Sheila
was afraid you wouldn't make it. Where have you been?"
He smiled back at her, which would have been difficult not to do. Lee
Garrett, as always, was radiant. He said, "I was just checking out a few
things. A few things like the American National Data Banks. Honey, you
still make a lousy agent provocateur, spy, or whatever."
She stiffened and then stared at him, at first uncompre-hendingly,
then slowly it dawned. "Why… why, you're that… what was his name?
Hamp. Hamp, something or other, of the Anti-Racist League. But he was
a black and you're white!" She was completely confused.
He grinned at her. "Actually, I'm kind of gray," he said. "Over the
generations, I've become so racially mixed I don't know what I am,
except that I'm rabidly anti-racist. But to get back to the National
Data Banks. It seems that you had a boyfriend. A pretty close
boyfriend, which makes me a little jealous of course, since I've been
planning on a permanent relationship with you, Lee. And it seems that
he had a ranking job in the data banks."
"Why, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Like hell you don't, girl of my dreams. The fact is that you've got a
nicely high I.Q. ,and Ability Quotient but not quite that high."
She stared at him, dismayed.
He said, "Your boyfriend jollied around with the equipment so that you
were a cinch to be sent here to Rome for a job with the World Club. I
doubt if even you expected it to be quite as good a job as this, though.
Now, come on, honey, what are you really doing here and who was it that
you were really reporting to? And don't tell me your mother."
She was defiant. "It was my mother. She's as opposed to the World
Club's meddling as I am, and as strongly as my father was. He fought it
all of his life and neither my mother nor I am satisfied about the way
he died."
That took the smile from his face. "They were at it that far back, eh?
So what was his case against us?"
"He wasn't entirely against eventual world government but he was
opposed to it being under control of a handful of Western billionaires,
plus a high-ranking police bureaucrat, and a religious fakir. He was of
the opinion that such a government would stifle healthy competition,
which is the source of much progress. He was absolutely appalled that a
State Church was being considered, not to speak of Mercenaries,
Incorporated as a possible world police. At any rate, mother and I
schemed to have me infiltrated into the World Club to keep an eye on
developments and possibly help expose them."
Jerry ran the back of a hand over his mouth ruefully. "Maybe we're not
as far apart as all that," he said.
She was still confused. "But you were a member of the Anti-Racist
League."
"Still am, honey. However, some time ago it seemed to me that the
World Club might offer a quicker way to end racism, so I got into it,
too. As a matter of fact, I belong to various other outfits. One of them
is African-based. They're fighting racism there—against whites.
There's quite a bit of anti-white bullshit going on in parts of Africa."
Then he murmured something that made no sense to her. "Pod Hampton,
I wonder if you ever dreamed what the hell you started when you
ripped off that silver." He looked at his wrist chronometer. "But we'd
better go to the meeting."
As they walked the corridor to the conference room, he looked over at
her and said, "How was the news of my supposed accident on the Riviera
received?"
"At first, we were upset," she told him. "We were all aghast—" she
hesitated—"except possibly Sheila, Chase, and Moyer. But then, of
course, your announcement came through that it was all a case of
mistaken identity."
He grunted. They reached the Central Committee's conference
chamber and a page opened the door for them.
Inside, all the rest were already seated around the heavy oaken table.
They were chattering among themselves, two or three more heatedly.
Sheila Duff-Roberts looked up from her papers and said tartly, "Well,
Jerry, late as usual, I see."
Jerry Auburn slid into his chair, while Lee took her place next to the
committee's secretary. He said, "This will be the last time that will
irritate you, Ms. Duff-Roberts."
The majestically proportioned woman looked at him, frowning. "What do
you mean by that?"
The buzz about the table fell off as the committee members turned
their attention to the two.
Jerry said evenly, "The body of Pamela McGivern has been discovered.
After you fired her she began motoring home to Dublin. She was
overtaken by a car driven by professional assassins, and run over a
mountainside. This type of killing seems to be the latest thing among
the pros these days. At any rate, the corpse was hidden, but
inadequately."
"That's terrible," Sheila said, seemingly shocked.
"It certainly is," Jerry told her. "It looks as though our Pamela knew
too much, so she was turned over to the mercies of Peter Windsor and
his boss, the Graf."
All eyes were on him now, a beginning of alarm in those of Harrington
Chase and John Warfield Moyer.
Jerry said, "Both Windsor and the Graf are now dead, and Mercenaries,
Incorporated dissolved. I was present and heard their last words."
The amazon secretary's face was ashen.
Jerry Auburn went on. "By Central Committee rules, any three members
of the committee can remove a secretary. Members Mendel Amschel
and Fong Hui got together with me before this meeting and we duly
removed Sheila Duff-Roberts."
She was on her feet in fury. She turned blazing eyes to Chase and
Moyer, who sat side by side. "Are you going to put up with this?" she
demanded.
The big Southwesterner was glaring at Jerry. "It seems precipitous!
The rest of us have not been consulted."
Jerry said, completely at ease, "The case of Pamela McGivern is not
unique. Harold Dunninger's kidnap death was also engineered by Peter
Windsor's men, and that attempt on me which resulted in the death of
my brother. In short, ladies and gentlemen, we have narrowly missed
imposing on Mother Earth a World Police State, a state more ruthless
than any in history, if only because of its universal scope."
Mendel Amschel said quietly to Sheila Duff-Roberts, "And now, if you
will leave? If any changes are made in our actions involving you, you will
immediately be informed."
She stormed from the room.
The international banker turned his eyes back to Jerry Auburn. "And
now, if you will go into the various matters you discussed with Mr. Fong
and me earlier today?"
Jerry made himself still more comfortable in his chair. He looked
around at the committee members one by one. "If you will excuse the
youngest member of this body taking so much time, I will excuse myself
by pointing out my recent escape from planned assassination, because I
was opposed to certain tendencies recently developing in the World
Club. I was also, ah, active in removing the late Lothar von Brandenburg,
and it was my agents who discovered what happened to Pamela
McGivern."
"Go on," Nils Norden, the Swedish industrialist, said impatiently.
Jerry said, "It has been pointed out that the Central Committee is
composed almost exclusively of males, of whites, of westerners,
especially Americans, and totally of the wealthy."
"That's as it should be!" Chase boomed, his voice belligerent.
"Is it?" Jerry looked at him. "We meet today to elect a new member to
replace Grace Cabot-Hudson. I suggest that we replace not one but
four of our membership. I am of the opinion that our goals have shifted
from the founding days of our organization and that we should return
to them. A world state I think desirable, but not under the domination
of the World Club. We should return to investigating the possibilities
of the future and even making recommendations, but forswear any
attempt to come to power ourselves."
"That's nonsense," the usually taciturn Moyer blurted.
"Who could be more capable than ourselves to govern a world state?"
"Who are we to say?" the Chinese murmured softly.
"I propose," Jerry said, "that we invite a representative of the Space
Federation of Lagrangia and the Asteroid Belt Islands to join the
Central Committee. It is ridiculous to divorce them from Earthside
affairs. Secondly, I suggest that we invite a member of the Wobblies,
preferably a woman, since we are so short of female members."
"The Wobblies," Chase boomed. "Those subversives! Those half-assed
radicals! They're against everything we stand for."
"That's why we ought to invite them in—to get opinions other than our
usual conservatism. Thirdly, I think we should have a representative
from the Anti-Racist League. We are talking about a world social order,
and surely the so-called colored races are in the overwhelming
majority."
"Now I know you've blown a fuse, Auburn," Chase shouted. "A
representative from the Anti-Racist League! He'd undoubtedly be a
black. We've already got a kike and a chink on this committee and
that's too much! Now you'd invite a nigger!"
That ran across the grain with even the usually conservative Nils
Norden. "You can be repulsive when you really try, Chase," said Norden.
"Fourth," Jerry pressed on, "we should have another woman
representing women's rights. There's still a great deal to be done in
that direction, especially in the more backward countries that will
eventually be part of the new world society."
The chunky Moyer said, his voice reasonable, "Central Committee rules
allow for only ten members on the Central Committee so that it doesn't
become unwieldly. Only one is resigning—our respected Grace Cabot-
Hudson. Where is the space for all these nominees of yours, Auburn?"
"I propose that three of us resign."
"Who?" Chase blurted, still red of face. "I suppose you are thinking of
me! Well, think again!"
Jerry was cool. "I propose that the three be Harrington Chase, John
Moyer, and myself. If such resignations are not immediately
forthcoming, I shall go further into the details of the deaths of Harold
Dunninger, Pamela McGivern, and the attempt to assassinate me."
Silence fell. And continued for long moments.
Finally, the heavyset Chase pushed himself to his feet. He growled to
Moyer, "Done! Come on, John, let's get the hell out of this madhouse.
They've gone completely around the bend."
When they were gone, there was still long silence.
But then, "Why you, Jeremiah?" It was Fong Hui, his voice typically
gentle. "I have always thought of you as. a dependable younger member
of the committee. Too many of us are elderly."
Jerry looked over at the aged Chinese. "Because, my honorable friend,
had I not offered my own resignation, then undoubtedly Chase and
Moyer would have fought, and then everything would have broken into
the open and possibly the new World Club would never have seen the
light of day. Indeed, the oJd one would have probably gone under." He
looked off info an unseen distance and added, his voice low, "Frankly,
I'm a mixed-up sonofabitch. And you want to know something else? I
suspect so is everybody else. That is, everybody who's trying to make
rhyme or reason out of this world we've got on our hands today."
Meyer Amschel said, "It is with regret that I accept your resignation,
Jeremiah. However, it occurs to me that perhaps you have some
suggestions on those replacements for our suddenly depleted
members."
Jerry nodded at that and came to his feet. "I strongly suggest that
Ms. Lee Garrett, though with us for such a short time, be appointed
secretary to replace Duff-Roberts. She seems to have the
qualifications."
Lee sucked in breath in surprise.
"Further," Jerry went on, "to represent the Space Federation, Ian
Venner, who is at present in New York. I have no suggestion for the
representative from the Wobblies, since I am not very well acquainted
with their organization. And, of course, I can hardly recommend a
representative for women's rights, though I suggest she be an
Oriental."
Fong said, "And the representative of the Anti-Racist League?"
Jerry Auburn said, "From them I would strongly suggest a certain
Horace Hampton."