The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Grace’s mouth worked but she said shakily, “I think I will, too.”

  “You’re all crazy,” Dave yelled. He turned suddenly and darted from the apartment.

  The sounds from the streets below welled higher.

  * * * *

  More and more of the community streamed from doorways, or came around the street corner. None were armed. Some looked at the newcomer warily, but none gave sign of hostility in any form.

  He gaped at them.

  Cass Davidsen said mildly, “All right, son. This is about all of us. Do you want to join?” He looked at his watch, and then without waiting for answer, said, “You look hungry. The cafeteria is down the street. Some of the women have been doing up a special lunch for you.”

  Bette said, “Grace and I had better get some clothing on.” She turned and reentered the bank, her companion following.

  The armed man said suddenly, “I get it. You’re all unarmed. You can use a guy like me. You need protection.”

  Ben Cotsell, who had been one of the last to come up, muttered, “As the old expression goes, like a hole in the head.”

  The scatter gun still held ready, the newcomer followed them and they filed into the cafeteria. He looked about quickly, narrowly. The interior was clean and was evidently used as a neighborhood gathering place as well as a community mess-hall. It fit, he decided. They were sharing the problems of food, water and fuel, rather than attempting to deal with such matters individually.

  He sat down, his back to a wall, the short-barreled gun beside him on the seat, and allowed them to bring him food. It had been a long time since he had eaten what might be called a regular meal. For longer than he liked to remember, it had all been cans or fresh meat inadequately cooked over an open fire.

  He said suddenly, “The name’s Burroughs. Ted Burroughs.”

  They had taken seats half circling him, but at enough distance so that he need not worry about their proximity.

  Cass Davidsen, the oldest and evidently some sort of spokesman, nodded seriously and one by one introduced the others. They were some thirty in all, largely women and children and older men, though there were some, such as Ben Cotsell, Donald Weimer and Jerry Chapman, who could have been little older than Burroughs, himself.

  By the time he had finished eating, almost entirely in silence, Bette and Grace had rejoined them, dressed now in summer sportswear. To him there seemed a ludicrous quality in the fact that they were clean and their dresses new. They obviously weren’t above looting. The tension largely over, now, he even allowed himself a slight, knowing sneer.

  He snapped suddenly, “The way I see it, you people haven’t got it on the ball to protect yourself. You need somebody like me to...”

  Cass was shaking his white head, his pale eyes somber. He interrupted. “We need no protection, Ted.”

  The newcomer chopped out a laugh. “You don’t know what’s going on in this world now, Pop. It’s kill, or be killed.”

  “We know,” one of the women said softly and began to cry. One of her neighbors put an arm around her shoulders but said nothing.

  Ted Burroughs growled, “Now look here. So far, nobody’s coming back into the cities yet. They’re afraid to. Nobody can figure out why New York wasn’t hit first, like all the other big cities. But...”

  Ben Cotsell said, “Where did you get the idea the other cities were bombed, Burroughs?”

  The armed man stared at him. “Don’t be stupid. Everybody knows the war’s on.”

  Ben shook his head. “A couple of streets over there’s a ham who’s managed to rig up his set. He’s raised others, even one in Switzerland. There is no war.”

  Burroughs’ eyes were bulging. “You crazy? Of course the war’s on. Everybody knows that!”

  Cass Davidsen gestured in a sweep, as though to include not only the large dining room, but all Metropolitan New York as well. “There is no war, Ted. We’ve been trying to reconstruct what must have developed, but our data is inadequate.”

  “I know what happened, damn it! When the news came through that the politicians on both sides wouldn’t back down, that everything possible had been tried, why, everybody in this whole area, everybody in cities, took to the country. Everybody.”

  “Not quite,” Bette said. “Some of us stayed.”

  He looked at her. “That’s what I can’t understand. Why? You must all be nuts!”

  Donald said, “Some of us didn’t want to leave. We had various reasons.”

  “Including being petrified with fear,” Bette said. “Including no desire to live in a dog-eat-dog world,” Cass said gently.

  Ben said, “We’ve heard some reports, of course. What happened? What happened to you?”

  The other rubbed the back of a dirty hand over his chapped lips, as though to wipe away spittle. “I don’t like to talk about it. It was everybody for himself. Everybody knew the bombs were going to come any minute. You had to get out of the city. Those that had cars started in them. Those that didn’t, tried to bum rides, or get taxis, or steal somebody else’s car. That’s where the first fighting started. Those with guns, or even knives, tried to get a car. Even the cops, even soldiers and sailors. But that didn’t last long. A million cars trying to get out of town at once. Practically none of them made it. A traffic jam would start and then people would pile out, leaving the car there and start running for it. With the cars abandoned in the middle of the street, then the jam never was cleared up, especially with no cops.”

  He shook his head at the memory and went on. “Those of us that did get out tried to take over what cars and trucks there were when we got to areas where there were no jams. And that led to more fighting. If you didn’t have a gun, you kept going until you found some dead body that had one. Or you broke into a sports store. Some of the towns we came to had put up barricades and the police had issued guns, some from the National Guard armories, I guess. But most towns, until you got all the way up to Kingston and Catskill, were mostly emptied too. Everybody heading back into the mountains.

  “But when you got up there, the food started running out. Some of us tried to go to earth before we got into the mountains. Tried to break into the bomb shelters. The people in the shelters fought back but those places were mostly never meant for defense and we knew there was food inside, and shelter from fallout. So we’d break in. Sometimes you’d see a bomb shelter that’d been captured and then captured from those who had captured it, until it wasn’t worth keeping, everything broken and shot up, everything looted.

  “There began to be fewer and fewer women and kids. And everybody had guns by now. Everybody started shooting first. Right on sight, if you saw somebody else with a gun, you shot first then went to see if he had anything worth taking, food, guns, ammunition.” He spun suddenly and glared at Cass Davidsen. “And you say the war didn’t even start.”

  The old man had been listening, his eyes closed in pain. He said, so softly that the other could hardly hear, “It never started. By the time it was ready to start, all reason for it had ended.”

  “All reason had ended, period,” Ben Cotsell muttered.

  “I don’t get it,” Burroughs complained. “Everybody knows that all the big cities and military and naval bases, airfields, munition factories and the like were going to get it first.”

  Cass nodded. “Yes. That is what everybody knew. Everybody in the civilized world. Not just in the United States of the Americas and in the Soviet Complex, but everywhere. And the moment it became obvious that there was no return, everyone for all practical purposes” —here he let his eyes go around the neighborhood assembly—“everyone sought safety in flight. Who was so insane as to remain in a city when it was so well known that not only we, but the Soviets as well and Common Europe, had enough destructive ability to level every city on earth? Not to speak of the Chinese and the other countries which were late in the race but still had their less plentiful but still ultra-destructive weapons.

  “Who was so insane as to rem
ain in a city, or near an industrial complex, or a transportation hub, be it rail center, port or airport? Who so insane as to remain near a military installation, no matter how small?”

  He wound up with an ironic shrug. “The world as we knew it, collapsed.”

  The heavily armed newcomer hadn’t ceased to stare. “Nobody out there knows it,” he blurted. “They’re all still fighting each other. All still afraid to come into the cities. There’s not even many of them left. The food’s either eaten, or wasted, or destroyed. Most of the women and kids and older people didn’t last the week out.”

  “And still they fight,” Esther Davidsen murmured in agony.

  “There’s one thing,” Burroughs growled thoughtfully. “There’s still food in the cities. If they’re all as deserted as this, there’s lots of food.” He looked up and rapped, “But how do we know the bombs won’t still come?”

  “Who would fire them, and why?” somebody said. “All the reasons are gone. Everything’s gone. There’s not even a pretense of government here. Why should we think it different anywhere else?”

  “How about the military? The army, the air force, the navy, and Polaris subs and everything?”

  Cass shook his head wearily. “We don’t know. There’s lots of things we don’t know. Evidently, no one gave the word to begin. The world simply collapsed in terror. And by this time, who cares about the old issues any more? There are no governments, no conflicting socio-economic systems, and I suspect for all practical purposes there are no armies. Armies need a vast economic potential behind them. Even half a century ago wars were no longer won by brave men, but by he who controlled the biggest industrial system.”

  Ted Burroughs came to his feet, his shotgun momentarily forgotten. He ground a dirty fist into the palm of his left hand. “We’ve temporarily got it made here. We’ve got food. Everybody’s hungry out there. That’s why I dared come back. I had to find food, no matter what chance there was of being caught in a missile attack. What we’ve got to do is get ready for them. We can find guns in the sporting stores, in the police stations, maybe even some tommy-guns.”

  Cass was shaking his head. “You don’t understand yet, son. Nobody among us has killed. We remained behind because we were the few who refused to survive…by killing.”

  The younger man growled contempt. “What happens if a guy like me comes along and takes over?”

  “The would-be man on horseback,” Ben murmured in resignation.

  Burroughs struck himself with his fist on the front of the soiled denim jacket. “To make it blunt, suppose right here and now I let you know I’m the boss? The dictator. What could you do?”

  “Nothing,” Cass Davidsen said mildly. “If you wish to be dictator, go right ahead.”

  The young fighter stared at him.

  Donald cleared his throat apologetically. “Did you think you were the first survivor to come back across the bridges, or through the tunnels, or down the parkways?”

  Burroughs swung his eyes to the little man. “What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

  Cass Davidsen said, “Why didn’t you shoot Bette and Grace?”

  “Shoot them? Why? They couldn’t have been carrying any kind of weapon in a bikini.”

  “Or me, when I first appeared?”

  “You’re an old duffer. Besides, you didn’t have a gun either.” He looked around at the others in the small group. “None of you have guns. You must be nuts!”

  Cass said gently, “Ted, the last survivor who decided he wanted to be the boss here, the dictator, lasted for only three days.”

  The boy was suddenly the fighting man again. He snatched up the shotgun, eyes narrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think?” Ben growled. “Another survivor came along. He had similar ideas. They shot each other. We threw their guns into the river, after burying them.” Cass Davidsen took it up. “We’re not the only small community on Manhattan, Ted, and I assume there are equivalent groups in all the large centers. The survivors stream back into town at the rate of several hundred a day, I suppose. Most are starving. All are desperate. All are armed. We try to welcome them, as we did you. Some join us. Most cling desperately to the security they think their weapons give them. Those that do, sooner or later run into their equal number and one or the other, or both, are killed. We continue on.

  “Ted, sooner or later this will end. The first steps are already being taken. Our ham operator is but one small example. What the end will be, I do not know. However, man had achieved before doomsday the ability to produce an abundance. That ability is still with us and one day we will utilize it. But there will never again be huge military machines. Never again will millions of politicians and bureaucrats dominate the nations, living as parasites on the useful members of society. Never again will our society be based on dog eat dog, each man for himself and the devil take the hindmost.

  “And now will you hand me those guns of yours, Ted Burroughs, so that I can give them to Bette and Grace to throw down the nearest sewer? You see, at long last the meek have inherited the earth. Simply because there are no others left. Or soon won’t be.”

  FAD

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  The idea for this one was given me y by Vance Packard, perhaps the outstanding muckraker of our generation. He lived in the apartment above us in Spain’s capital and got a terrible case of the Madrid Minuet (known as the Aztec Two-Step, or Montezuma’s Revenge, here in Mexico) and couldn’t go out. So we sat around a bit and rapped about his work and mine. At the time I was concentrating on stories laid in the year 2000 and suggested that he do a book, nonfiction, of course, projecting the most-probable world thirty years in the future. He shook his head and said that the way the world was going anyone who seriously tried to extrapolate a decade into the future made a fool of himself. This one first appeared in Analog.

  —Mack Reynolds

  * * * *

  Warren Dempsey Witherson’s copter-cab flitted in to the landing ramp of the Doolittle Building and came to a gentle halt.

  Witherson peered about, holding his pince-nez glasses to the upper bridge of his nose with the forefinger of his left hand. There was no one else on the ramp for the moment. He cleared his throat and tried the door of the auto-taxi. It, as usual though not always, Witherson had long since found, didn’t budge.

  He looked at the auto-meter and the sign beneath it which read, The Slot Will Take Bills or Coins of Any Denomination and Return Your Correct Change.

  Warren Dempsey Witherson peered nervously to right and left again, dipped his thumb and first two fingers into a vest pocket and came forth with a dollar sized iron slug. He dropped it into the auto-meter slot and waited for his twenty cents change before opening the door and stepping out.

  He set his conservatively cut coat, jiggled his malacca cane preliminary to getting under way, cleared his throat and headed for the building’s entrance.

  The Doolittle Building was ostentatiously swank and boasted a live receptionist.

  Warren Dempsey Witherson bent a kindly eye upon her and fished about in his pockets absently until he came up with a business card. He pushed his glasses back and blinked at the card as though wondering where he had seen the like before. However, he handed it over.

  Miss Evans was crisp, after inspecting it. “Yes, Dr. Witherson. Whom was it you wished to see?”

  “Eh? Of course, my dear. Professor Doolittle.”

  Only the slightest flick indicated she was taken aback. “You have an appointment, doctor? Perhaps one of his secretaries—”

  “Appointment? An appointment? Certainly not, my dear.” Dr. Witherson beamed at her forgivingly.

  Miss Evans placed the card on a scanner and said something softly into an efficient looking gadget which sat, small and inconspicuous, to her right.

  There was a slight flicker again just before she said, “Professor Doolittle will see you immediately, doctor. He is sending one of his secretaries down.” />
  “Of course, my dear.”

  The secretary hurried from the lift and came trotting forward as though anxiously.

  “Dr. Witherson? So sorry to have kept you waiting. Professor Doolittle sent me. I’m Walthers, doctor.”

  “Fine, my boy,” Witherson beamed at him.

  The lift, unlike the others serving the building, was unlettered and Walthers used a key to open its door. It bore them to the highest reaches of the edifice in the shortest of order.

  Professor Doolittle came to his feet immediately and marched forward, a heavy paw outstretched, when the two entered his office which involved the better part of a quarter acre of floor space.

  “That will be all, Walthers,” he said. “And be sure I am undisturbed, no matter the circumstance.”

  Walthers was too well trained to frown. He jittered his feet a bit and said, “But, sir, the president of Perfect Soap—”

  “Absolutely nothing, Walthers.” Professor Doolittle puffed out apple-red cheeks to the point of resembling Santa Claus.

  “Yes, sir.” Walthers was gone.

  The two old men stood back from each other and grinned inanely.

  “The Funked Out Kid!”

  “The Professor!”

  “By George, it’s been a long time, Kid.”

  “Since…let’s see, Tangier. Last mark we copped a score from was that winchell in Tangier.”

  “The last I heard of you, Kid, somebody told me you failed to properly cool off a mark you had just taken on a Big Con down in Miami.” The Professor turned and headed for an impressive, volume heavy bookcase, which turned out to be an imperial-size bar upon the flicking of a hand over an eye-button.

  The Funked Out Kid followed him. “The fix had curdled and for a while I was warm, but I wasn’t sneezed.”

  The Professor chuckled, “What will it be, Kid? You used to drink rye.”

  Drinks in hand, they found chairs and grinned at each other some more.

  Both were in their sixties, but there resemblance ended. Mutt and Jeff came to mind, or perhaps those comedians of yesteryear, Abbott and Costello. The Funked Out Kid was thin and nervous. The Professor, short, bulky and jovial.