Dawnman Planet up-2

by Mack Reynolds

  Ronny stared at him. “He’s gone? Where?”

  “Evidently, back to Phrygia. He came to the conference in his own official yacht. Which is, by the way, at least as fast as any Space Forces cruiser, or public transportation. You won’t be able to beat him back to his home planet, no matter how soon you start.”

  It was clearing up now. Ronny looked from one of them to the other. “You want me to go to Phrygia, eh? What do I do there?”

  Ross scowled at him. “If we knew, then we wouldn’t have to send as good a man. You play it by ear. Do what has to be done.”

  Ronny grunted at the left-handed compliment. “How big is our Section G force on Phrygia?”

  Metaxa looked at Sid Jakes.

  Sid was amused. “Only one man,” he said. “And he’s incognito. Operates under the guise of a member of the UP Department of Trade. The Phrygians are as stute as they come and evidently suspect the true nature of Section G. They don’t want any of our operatives stirring around in their affairs.”

  Ronny came to his feet. “I suppose I’d better get under way.” He hesitated. “What happened to Rita Daniels and Rosen?”

  Sid shrugged. “We memorywashed them and sent them back to Interplanetary News. They can’t complain. They’ve been violating Article Two in return for news beats.”

  Irene Kasansky had made the arrangements for his trip out to Phrygia. When Ronny issued forth from Metaxa’s sanctum sanctorium, she had looked up at him from her multiple duties on phone screen and order box, at desk mike and auto-files.

  “Got your marching orders, eh? Before they’re through in there, there won’t be an agent left on Mother Earth.” She handed a slip of paper to him. “Your shuttle for Neuve Albuquerque leaves at six. You’ll have only one hour stopover. It’s all on the paper there. Take care of yourself, Ronny.”

  It occurred to him only then, why Metaxa and Jakes had sent but one agent to Phrygia. Section G must be impossibly short of men in this crisis. Metaxa must have a thousand sore spots with which to deal. Metaxa had been right, up there on the podium, man was in the clutch and must soon alter all his most basic institutions, or he would be a sitting duck for the ultra-advanced aliens.

  Ronny Bronston packed sparsely. He had no idea how long he might remain on the distant planet, which was his destination. It might be a matter of hours or years; he might spend the rest of his life there. However, if the stay were lengthy, he could augment his possessions on the spot. To date, he had no idea of what Phrygia climate or clothing styles might be. Why overload himself with non-essentials?

  The roof of his apartment building was a copter-cab pickup point, and it took him little time to make his way to the Greater Washington shuttleport. Within three hours of his exit from Ross Metaxa’s office, he was being lobbed over to the spaceport at Neuve Albuquerque.

  Irene had made him reservations on an interplanetary liner, rather than assigning a Space Forces cruiser. More comfortable than the military craft, of course, but not so fast. He shrugged. It was a long trip, and one to which he didn’t look forward.

  When Ronny Bronston had been a younger man, working in Population Statistics in New Copenhagen, had someone suggested that he wouldn’t enjoy interplanetary travel, he would have thought the other mad. Getting into space was every earthborn boy’s dream, and few there were who realized it. Long since, the authorities had taken measures to keep Earth’s population from leaving wholesale. These days, when new planets were colonized, the colonists came from older settled planets, other than Earth. Earth, the source of man, could not spare its people. Its sole “industry” had at long last become the benevolent direction of human affairs, a super-government. More than four thousand man-populated worlds looked to it, in one degree or another, even those not members of United Planets.

  However, no matter how strong the dream, no matter how wrapped up in interplanetary affairs, Ronny Bronston soon came to realize that the actual time involved in getting from one colonized planet to the next was the sheerest of boredom. All passenger activity in space was manufactured activity. There was little to do, certainly nothing to see, once the ship has gone into underspace.

  One sits and reads. One plays battle chess, or other games. One talks with one’s fellow passengers. One watches the Tri-Di tapes, if one is mentally of that level.

  Thus it was, on the first day out, that Ronny Bronston made his way to the lounge, hoping that at least the craft was stocked with reading material new to him.

  He sank into an auto-chair, as far as possible from the Tri-Di stage, and reached his hand for the stud, which would activate the reading tape listing, set into the chair’s arm. His eye, however, hit upon the fellow passenger seated a few feet to his right.

  He frowned, and said, “Don’t we know each…” and then broke it off. Of course. It was Rita Daniels, the Interplanetary News reporter. He hadn’t recognized her at first, since she had been wearing a heavy makeup disguise-trying to look like the Supreme Matriarch, Harriet Dos Passos—when he had seen her last. Now, in her own guise, he realized that she was considerably younger than he had thought—and considerably more attractive.

  She was blonde, a bit too slim, with a pert, slightly freckled face, and ignored current hair style in favor of a rather intricate ponytail arrangement. In spite of her pertness, there was another more elusive quality, a certain vulnerableness about her mouth. She was clad in a businesslike, inconspicuous crimson suit, and she obviously was of the opinion that this somewhat colorless young man was attempting to pick her up.

  She said coolly, “I am afraid not”—and turned away.

  What in the name of the Holy Ultimate was she doing on this vessel? The implication was obvious.

  He snapped his fingers. “Citizeness Daniels. Interplanetary News.”

  She turned on him, her eyebrows high, in surprise. “I’m sorry. You do seem to know me. But… I’m afraid…”

  It came to him suddenly that to reveal his true identity would put her on guard. However, he had an advantage. He knew she had been memorywashed. There was a period of at least twenty-four hours, probably more, of which she remembered nothing whatsoever, nor did her immediate superior, Rosen. It must be a confusing situation, he realized. But advantage, it was.

  He said easily, smiling, “You remember me. Just yesterday.”

  She blinked, her eyes immediately alert. Without doubt, she was keen to take advantage of an opportunity to replace erased memories. “Oh, yes, of course, Citizen…”

  He grinned at her, both on the surface and inwardly, in true amusement. “Smythe,” he supplied. “Jimmy Smythe, I helped you out of that trouble with the bottle of guzzle and the traffic coordinator. Wow, were you drenched, eh?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  V

  “Where are you bound?” he said, the standard traveler’s gambit. He was less apt to be suspect if he asked it.

  She hesitated, then smiled. “End of the line, I suppose. All the way to Phrygia.”

  “Some special news story?”

  This time the hesitation was longer, but the question was still the expected one anybody, knowing she was a reporter, would ask. She smiled ruefully, and said, “What else? And you?”

  He projected embarrassment. “My job is supposed to be kind of secret. Orders are not to discuss it with anybody.”

  She laughed, obviously not caring. “I’ll have to worm it out of you. Probably make a good newstape.”

  He grunted self-deprecation. “Hardly. Worst luck. It must be something, being with Interplanetary News. You must meet a lot of interesting people.”

  She looked at him, as though wondering if he were kidding. However, no matter how much of a yoke, he was probably better than no companionship at all, and it was a long trip. Besides, he knew at least something about what had happened to her during her twenty-four hour blackout.

  “Well, yes,” she drew out. “I suppose so. There’s a lot of fun being on the inside of everything.” She was wondering how sh
e could get around to asking just what the circumstances were under which he had met her. Perhaps the blunt approach would do it. He didn’t seem to be particularly stute, not to say devious. At most, there seemed to be a kind of sad sensitivity about him, as though he felt something in life was passing him by.

  “How about a drink?” he suggested, looking down at the wine list in the chair’s arm. He winced at the prices, as he knew an ordinary traveling salesman type might do.

  “In space? Good heavens.”

  “I’ll put it on the expense account,” he said, with an air of gallantry. “Oiling up the press, or whatever they call it.”

  They settled for John Brown’s Bodies, and he told her the one about feeling like you were moldering in your grave, came morning.

  Then he said, “How do you mean, on the ‘inside’ of everything?”

  She considered that. “Well, back when I was in school I decided that there were two kinds of people throughout the worlds. Those who were on the inside pertaining to everything that really counts, and those who were on the outside, and didn’t have a clue. And I decided, then and there, I wanted to be an insider.”

  He sipped his drink and looked at her, his eyes guileless. “I’ll bet you were in your sophomore year, when you thought that up,” he said.

  “Why… as a matter of fact, I suppose I was,” she said. “How did you know?”

  “I used to work in statistics,” he said meaninglessly. He covered over. “But what is an example of being on the inside?”

  She touched the tip of her slightly freckled nose, in a young girl’s gesture, slightly incongruous on the part of an experienced news-hen. “Well, let’s take one of the early examples. Have you ever heard of a man named Hearst?”

  He had, but he said no.

  “Well, Hearst was the owner of a newspaper chain back about the turn of the 20th Century. At that time, he supported a group that believed the United States was getting into the colony-grabbing game too late. He beat the drums for intervention in Cuba, where a great deal of American capital was invested, against Spain. The story is that he sent a photographer down to take pictures of the war. The photographer cabled that there wasn’t any war. And Hearst cabled back, You supply the photos, I’ll supply the war . And he continued to beat the drums. Not long after, the American battleship Maine was sunk in Havana harbor.”

  Ronny nodded. “I’ve often wondered who sank the Maine,” he said.

  She looked at him.

  He said reasonably, “Obviously, it had to be one of three groups, the Cubans, the Spanish or the Americans. No one else was involved. Of them all, the Spanish had the least reason to sink it. The sad excuse for a war that followed was ample proof that they wanted to provoke no such scrap.” He paused; then added thoughtfully, “I wonder if the ship was well insured.”

  “Look,” she demanded, “who’s being cynical here, you or me?”

  He laughed, as though embarrassed. “Go on.”

  “So, pushed by Hearst and other drum beaters, President McKinley got increasingly tougher. Unfortunately, the Spanish didn’t cooperate. Their queen ordered Cuban hostilities suspended, in an attempt to placate the Americans. They were doing all they could to keep the war from happening. However, Hearst and the other drum beaters hardly mentioned her efforts. And McKinley ignored the fact that the potential enemy had already offered capitulation, when he addressed Congress asking for war measures. To wind it all up, the Spanish were clobbered. It was like taking candy from babes.”

  Ronny attempted to portray dismay. “So that’s what it’s like be be on the inside. You mean the press can actually influence the news.”

  She laughed at him in scorn. “My dear Citizen Smythe, the press today makes the news. We shape it to fulfill our own needs, to realize our own ideals, to build a better race.”

  He looked at her, wide-eyed, in complete sympathy. “The way you put it, it’s absolutely inspiring.”

  She had his admiring interest now, and responded. “Take for instance,” she explained, “some planet of which we don’t approve. Suppose that three news items came out of there one day. The first mentions a new cure for cancer; the second, some startling statistics on industrial progress being made; the third mentions a riot by high school children, who overturn some copter-cabs in the streets and throw stones through some windows. What story do you think we put on the interplanetary broadcasts?”

  “You mean the last one? Only the last one?”

  “Why should we mention the other two?” she said reasonably.

  “Well, doesn’t it kind of involve freedom of speech, or of the press, or something?”

  She scoffed at him. “It’s our press, isn’t it? The freedom consists of printing what we wish.”

  “Well, that isn’t the way I should have put it. I mean, the right of the public to know… or something.”

  She scoffed again. “Let’s have another of these. What did you call them? This time we’ll put it on Interplanetary News’ swindle sheet.” She dialed the drinks. “It’s up to us, we who are on the inside, to decide what the public ought to know. They’re a bunch of yokes, not up to making decisions.”

  Ronny thought about it. “Well, possibly the reason they’re yokes, like you say, incapable of making competent decisions, is because they’re improperly informed. But, anyway, that’s the reason you’re going to Phrygia, eh? Something really inside is going on.”

  She sipped the potent drink and scowled at him. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know what’s going on. But it’s something very big. It involves Baron Wyler himself.”

  “Who’s Baron Wyler?” Ronny said, trying to look as though he were trying to look interested.

  She was stung by the fact that she didn’t seem to be impressing him. “I can see you’re not one of those insiders. The Baron is the most aggressive single man in UP. He’s Supreme Commandant of Phrygia and Phrygia is the most aggressive planet in the system.”

  Ronny snorted. “What good does it do to be aggressive these days? Under United Planets, no member planet is allowed to interfere with any other. Where can your aggressiveness, go, besides inward?”

  She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it suddenly. She looked into her drink. “These are strong, aren’t they, Jerry?”

  “Pretty strong, all right. In the auto-bars, they usually have a sign—only one to a customer.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Oh, listen. That song.” She wagged her head to it, setting her blonde ponytail a-swing. It was coming from the Tri-Di stage at the other end of the lounge. “Do you dance?” she said.

  “Well, a little. I’m not very good at this rock’n’swing stuff.”

  She stood up. “Neither am I. Let’s try this, it’s an old favorite of mine.”

  He took her in his arms and they joined half a dozen other couples on the small dance floor.

  They had taken only a few steps before she said, tightly, “That’s what I thought. You’re carrying a shooter, aren’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She stopped dancing, turned and returned to her chair. She began to pick up her half-finished drink, but then sat it down again, decisively.

  He lowered himself to his own seat, across from her, and looked into her eyes.

  She said bitterly, “It’s that ineffective air of yours. Who are you from?”

  He shook his head.

  She asked, “How did you know my name?”

  “Like I said, I met you yesterday.”

  “Yes. You also said your name was Jimmy Smythe, and then managed to forget that, not correcting me, when I called you ‘Jerry’.”

  She had him there. Ronny had to laugh aloud.

  She said, bitterly, “You look smarter when you laugh. How did you know my name?”

  Ronny shook his head, as though sorry she wouldn’t believe him.

  She said, “If you met me yesterday, then you probably have something to do with the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs.”


  “Why should that follow?” he asked mildly.

  “Because yesterday”—she hesitated, then plunged on— “through a tip given us by… one of our informants, I went to the Octagon, on an assignment from Dave Rosen. I was memorywashed there, and, now, can’t even remember the assignment.”

  Ronny played it out. “Why not ask this—what was his name? Rosen?—what he sent you for?”

  “He was memorywashed, too, as you undoubtedly are aware.”

  He shrugged. “I thought that was very illegal. Who did it?”

  “How could we know? I told you, we were memory-washed.”

  Ronny scowled puzzlement at her. “Well, why not just check back with your informant and find out what tip you were working on?”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” she said, still bitterly. “Unfortunately, he’s gone all the way to Phrygia.” She got up, preparatory to stomping off. “And don’t ask me why we don’t simply ultra-wave him. All-Planet Press, the Bureau of Investigation and who knows who else, would be listening in. Good-bye, Jerry!”

  “Jimmy,” Ronny said mildly. “Sure you wouldn’t like another drink. I was really beginning to enjoy our talk, about being inside and all.”

  Rita Daniels wasn’t as much of a lightweight as his first encounter on the spaceliner with her might have indicated. She avoided him for two days, then showed up at his table in the passenger’s mess, while he was finishing off some fruit dessert.

  He began to come to his feet, but she slid into a chair before he could invite her.

  “Your name is Ronald Bronston,” she informed him. “And you’re an operative for Ross Metaxa in that Section G mystery outfit. In fact,” she added snappishly, “you’re one of his top hatchet-men. I must say, it’s hard to believe.”

  He said calmly, “You Interplanetary News people have your resources, haven’t you?”