The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  They entered the small vessel and looked around.

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to come almost a quarter of the way from Mars in this,” Bruce grunted. “Sure is confined.”

  Dick sat down before the radio and fiddled with it. He looked up, after a time, his face strange.

  “What’s the matter?” Bruce said.

  Dick MaGruder was on the wide-eyed side. He said, “There’s nothing wrong with this set.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s working perfectly.”

  Bruce Camaroon’s face went blank.

  Dick said slowly, “He was receiving us all the time. Us and the spaceports at Dundee, Kiev and Peking as well.”

  “But…but...”

  “Don’t you see?” Dick said in disgust. “We’re the victims of the biggest publicity hoax the world has ever seen. When the Spaceship Promised Land blew, those two kids had no people, no resources, not even a country, as we both pointed out. Now they’re the darlings of all Earth. You know, I’ll bet that girl isn’t even badly burned. He didn’t really need a doctor’s advice. It was all a put-on. If he had really needed a doctor, for his sister’s care, he wouldn’t have pulled the trick.”

  “But suppose we reveal that it was a hoax, that the radio was okay all the time?”

  Dick looked at him and grunted sour amusement. “Who’d believe you? People love heroes and now they’ve got one. They’d think we repaired the set and were trying to give the kid a hard time. You might wind up getting yourself lynched.”

  Bruce said, a certain element of respect in his voice, “Why, that little brat!”

  COMPOUNDED INTEREST

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  This is one of my favorite stories. In the science-fiction field we have various themes that are a challenge. One of them is the “time travel” yarn. It’s something like the “murder taking place in a sealed room” theme in the detective-story genre. This has been done by just about every longtime detective-story writer since Edgar Allan Poe wrote Murders in the Rue Morgue. It would seem practically impossible to get a new departure. So, challenged, they try to come up with a new device. Thus it is with time travel for a science-fiction writer. You simply have to dream up some never-before-used plot on time travel. Obviously, it’s a corker. “If time travel was possible, suppose you went back and killed your own grandfather. Then you would never have been born! So you couldn’t go back and kill your grandfather!”

  And so it goes. This story was first bought by Tony Boucher, possibly the best-loved science-fiction editor ever, for the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. It was picked up by Judith Merril for her second issue of The Year’s Best SF. Then, a decade later, she put it in her Best of the Best, in which she included what she thought were the ranking stories of her ten years of anthologies. It has been reprinted and translated many times.

  —Mack Reynolds

  * * * *

  The stranger said in miserable Italian, “I wish to see Sior Marin Goldini on business.”

  The concierge’s manner was suspicious. Through the wicket he ran his eyes over the newcomer’s clothing. “On business, Sior?” He hesitated. “Possibly, Sior, you could inform me as to the nature of your business, so that I might inform his Zelenza’s secretary, Vico Letta…” He let his sentence dribble away.

  The stranger thought about that. “It pertains,” he said finally, “to gold.” He brought a hand from his pocket and opened it to disclose a half dozen yellow coins.

  “A moment, Lustrissimo,” the servant blurted quickly. “Forgive me. Your costume, Lustrissimo…” He let his sentence dribble away again and was gone.

  A few moments later he returned to swing the door open wide. “If you please, Lustrissimo, his Zelenza awaits you.”

  He led the way down a vaulted hall to the central court, to the left past a fountain well to a heavy outer staircase supported by Gothic arches and sided by a carved parapet. They mounted, turned through a dark doorway and into a poorly lit corridor. The servant stopped and drummed carefully on a thick wooden door. A voice murmured from within and the servant held the door open and then retreated.

  Two men were at a rough-hewn oak table. The older was heavy-set, tight of face and cold, and the other tall and thin and ever at ease. The latter bowed gently. He gestured and said, “His Zelenza, the Sior Marin Goldini.”

  The stranger attempted a clumsy bow in return, said awkwardly, “My name is… Mister Smith.”

  There was a moment of silence which Goldini broke finally by saying, “And this is my secretary, Vico Letta. The servant mentioned gold, Sior, and business.”

  The stranger dug into a pocket, came forth with ten coins which he placed on the table before him. Vico Letta picked one up in mild interest and examined it. “I am not familiar with the coinage,” he said.

  His master twisted his cold face without humor. “Which amazes me, my good Vico.” He turned to the newcomer. “And what is your wish with these coins, Sior Mister Smith? I confess, this is confusing.”

  “I want,” Mister Smith said, “to have you invest the sum for me.”

  Vico Letta had idly weighed one of the coins in question on a small scale. He cast his eyes up briefly as he estimated. “The ten would come to approximately forty-nine zecchini, Zelenza,” he murmured.

  Marin Goldini said impatiently, “Sior, the amount is hardly sufficient for my house to bother with. The bookkeeping alone—”

  The stranger broke in. “Don’t misunderstand. I realize the sum is small. However, I would ask but ten per cent, and would not call for an accounting for… for one hundred years.”

  The two Venetians raised puzzled eyebrows. “A hundred years, Sior? Perhaps your command of our language…” Goldini said politely.

  “One hundred years,” the stranger said.

  “But surely,” the head of the house of Goldini protested, “it is unlikely that any of we three will be alive. If God wants, possibly even the house of Goldini will be a memory only.”

  Vico Letta, intrigued, had been calculating rapidly. Now he said, “In one hundred years, at ten per cent compounded annually, your gold would be worth better than 700,000 zecchini.”

  “Quite a bit more,” the stranger said firmly.

  “A comfortable sum,” Goldini nodded, beginning to feel some of the interest of his secretary. “And during this period, all decisions pertaining to the investment of the amount would be in the hands of my house?”

  “Exactly.” The stranger took a sheet of paper from his pocket, tore it in two, and handed one half to the Venetians. “When my half of this is presented to your descendants, one hundred years from today, the bearer will be due the full amount.”

  “Done, Sior Mister Smith!” Goldini said. “An amazing transaction, but done. Ten percent in this day is small indeed to ask.”

  “It is enough. And now may I make some suggestions? You are perhaps familiar with the Polo family?”

  Goldini scowled. “I know Sior Maffeo Polo.”

  “And his nephew, Marco?”

  Goldini said cautiously, “I understand young Marco was captured by the Genoese. Why do you ask?”

  “He is writing a book on his adventures in the Orient. It would be a well of information for a merchant house interested in the East. Another thing. In a few years there will be an attempt on the Venetian government and shortly thereafter a Council of Ten will be formed which will eventually become the supreme power of the republic. Support it from the first and make every effort to have your house represented.”

  They stared at him and Marin Goldini crossed himself unobtrusively.

  The stranger said, “If you find need for profitable investments beyond Venice I suggest you consider the merchants of the Hanse cities and their soon to be organized League.”

  They continued to stare and he said, uncomfortably, “I’ll go now. Your time is valuable.” He went to the door, opened it himself and left.

  Marin Goldini snorted. “That lia
r, Marco Polo.”

  Vico said sourly, “How could he have known we were considering expanding our activities into the East? We have discussed it only between ourselves.”

  “The attempt on the government,” Marin Goldini said, crossing himself again. “Was he hinting that our intriguing is known? Vico, perhaps we should disassociate ourselves from the conspirators.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Zelenza,” Vico muttered. He picked up one of the coins again and examined it, back and front. “There is no such nation,” he grumbled, “but the coin is perfectly minted.” He picked up the torn sheet of paper, held it to the light. “Nor have I ever seen such paper, Zelenza, nor such a strange language, although, on closer examination, it appears to have some similarities to the English tongue.”

  * * * *

  The House of Letta-Goldini was located now in the San Toma district, an imposing structure through which passed the proceeds of a thousand ventures in a hundred lands.

  Riccardo Letta looked up from his desk at his assistant. “Then he really has appeared? Per favore, Lio, bring me the papers pertaining to the, ah, account. Allow me a matter of ten minutes to refresh my memory and then bring the Sior to me.”

  The great grandson of Vico Letta, head of the House of Letta-Goldini, came to his feet elegantly, bowed in the sweeping style of his day, said, “Your servant, Sior...” The newcomer bobbed his head in a jerky, embarrassed return of the courtesy, said, “Mister Smith.”

  “A chair, Lustrissimo? And now, pray pardon my abruptness. One’s duties when responsible for a house of the magnitude of Letta-Goldini…”

  Mister Smith held out a torn sheet of paper. His Italian was abominable. “The agreement made with Marin Goldini, exactly one century ago.”

  Riccardo Letta took the paper. It was new, clean and fresh, which brought a frown to his high forehead. He took up an aged, yellowed fragment from before him and placed one against the other. They matched to perfection. “Amazing, Sior, but how can it be that my piece is yellow with age and your own so fresh?”

  Mister Smith cleared his throat. “Undoubtedly, different methods have been used to preserve them.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Letta relaxed in his chair, placed fingertips together. “And undoubtedly you wish your capital and the interest it has accrued. The amount is a sizable one, Sior; we shall find it necessary to call in various accounts.”

  Mister Smith shook his head. “I want to continue on the original basis.”

  Letta sat upright. “You mean for another hundred years?”

  “Precisely. I have faith in your management, Sior Letta.”

  “I see.” Riccardo Letta had not maintained his position in the cutthroat world of Venetian banking and commerce by other than his own ability. It took him only a moment to gather himself. “The appearance of your ancestor, Sior, has given rise to a veritable legend in this house. You are familiar with the details?”

  The other nodded, warily.

  “He made several suggestions, among them that we support the Council of Ten. We are now represented on the Council, Sior. I need not point out the advantage. He also suggested we investigate the travels of Marco Polo, which we failed to do—but should have. Above all in strangeness was his recommendation that investments be made in the Hanse towns.”

  “Well, and wasn’t that a reasonable suggestion?

  “Profitable, Sior, but hardly reasonable. Your ancestor appeared in the year 1300 but the Hanseatic League wasn’t formed until 1358.”

  The small man, strangely garbed in much the same manner tradition had it the first Mister Smith had appeared, twisted his face wryly. “I am afraid I am in no position to explain, Sior. And now, my own time is limited, and, in view of the present size of my investment, I am going to request you have drawn up a contract more binding than the largely verbal one made with the founders of your house.”

  Riccardo Letta rang a small bell on his desk and the next hour was spent with assistants and secretaries. At the end of that period, Mister Smith, a sheaf of documents in his hands, said, “And now may I make a few suggestions?”

  Riccardo Letta leaned forward, his eyes narrow. “By all means.”

  “Your house will continue to grow and you will have to think in terms of spreading to other nations. Continue to bank the Hanse cities. In the not too far future a remarkable man named Jacques Coeur will become prominent in France. Bring him into the firm as French representative. However, all support should be withdrawn from him in the year 1450.”

  Mister Smith stood up, preparatory to leaving. “One warning, Sior Letta. As a fortune grows large, the jackals gather. I suggest the magnitude of this one be hidden and diffused. In this manner temporary setbacks may be suffered through the actions of this prince, or that revolution, but the fortune will continue.”

  Riccardo Letta was not an overly religious man, but after the other had left he crossed himself as had his predecessor.

  * * * *

  There were twenty of them waiting in the year 1500. They sat about a handsome conference table, representatives of half a dozen nations, arrogant of mien, sometimes cruel of face. Waldemar Gotland acted as chairman.

  “Your Excellency,” he said in passable English, “may we assume this is your native language?”

  Mister Smith was taken aback by the number of them, but, “You may,” he said.

  “And that you wish to be addressed as Mister Smith in the English fashion?”

  Smith nodded. “That will be acceptable.”

  “Then, sir, if you will, your papers. We have named a committee, headed by Emil de Hanse, to examine them as to authenticity.”

  Smith handed over his sheaf of papers. “I desired,” he complained, “that this investment be kept secret.”

  “And it has been to the extent possible, Excellency. Its size is now fantastic. Although the name Letta-Goldini is still kept, no members of either family still survive. During the past century, Excellency, numerous attempts have been made to seize your fortune.”

  “To be expected,” Mister Smith said interestedly. “And what foiled them?”

  “Principally the number involved in its management, Excellency. As a representative from Scandinavia, it is hardly to my interest to see a Venetian or German corrupt The Contract.”

  Antonio Ruzzini bit out, “Nor to our interest to see Waldemar Gotland attempt it. There has been blood shed more than once in the past century, Zelenza”

  The papers were accepted as authentic.

  Gotland cleared his throat. “We have reached the point, Excellency, where the entire fortune is yours, and we merely employees. As we have said, attempts have been made on the fortune. We suggest, if it is your desire to continue its growth...”

  Mister Smith nodded here.

  “…that a stronger contract, which we have taken the liberty to draw up, be adopted.”

  “Very well, I’ll look into it. But first, let me give you my instructions.”

  There was an intake of breath and they sat back in their chairs.

  Mister Smith said, “With the fall of Constantinople to the Turks, the Venetian power will drop. The house must make its center elsewhere.”

  There was a muffled exclamation.

  Mister Smith went on: “The fortune is now considerable enough that we can afford to take a long view. We must turn our eyes westward. Send a representative of the fortune to Spain. Shortly, the discoveries in the west will open up investment opportunities there. Support men named Hernando Cortez and Francisco Pizarro. In the middle of the century withdraw our investments from Spain and enter them in England, particularly in commerce and manufacture. There will be large land grants in the new world; attempt to have representatives of the fortune gain some of them. There will be confusion at the death of Henry VIII; support his daughter Elizabeth.

  “You will find, as industry expands in the northern countries, that it is impractical for a manufacturer to operate where there are literally scores of saints’ days and fiestas.
Support such religious leaders as demand a more, ah, puritanical way of life.”

  He wound it up. “One other thing. This group is too large. I suggest that only one person from each nation involved be admitted to the secret of the contract.”

  * * * *

  “Gentlemen,” Mister Smith said in 1600, “turn more to manufacture and commerce in Europe, to agriculture, mining and accumulation of large areas of real estate in the New World. Great fortunes will be made this century in the East; be sure that our various houses are first to profit.”

  * * * *

  They waited about the conference table in London. The clock, periodically and nervously checked, told them they had a full fifteen minutes before Mister Smith was expected.

  Sir Robert took a pinch of snuff, presented an air of nonchalance he did not feel. “Gentlemen,” he said, “frankly I find it difficult to believe the story legend. Come now, after everything has been said, what does it boil down to?”

  Pierre Deflage said softly, “It is a beautiful story, messieurs. In the year 1300 a somewhat bedraggled stranger appeared before a Venetian banking house and invested ten pieces of gold, the account to continue for a century. He made certain suggestions that would have tried the abilities of Nostradamus. Since then his descendants have appeared each century at this day and hour and reinvested the amount, never collecting a sou for their own use, but always making further suggestions. Until now, messieurs, we have reached the point where it is by far the largest fortune in the world. I, for instance, am considered the wealthiest man in France.” He shrugged eloquently. “While we all know I am but an employee of The Contract.”

  “I submit,” Sir Robert said, “that the story is impossible. It has been one hundred years since our Mr. Smith has supposedly appeared. During that period there have been ambitious men and unscrupulous men in charge of The Contract. They concocted this fantastic tale for their own ends. Gentlemen, there is no Mr. Smith and never was a Mr. Smith. The question becomes, shall we continue the farce, or shall we take measures to divide the fortune and each go our own way?”

  A small voice from the doorway said, “If you think that possible, sir, we shall have to work still more to make the contract iron bound. May I introduce myself? You may call me Mr. Smith.”