Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  Smoothing back his sleek fair hair, he shot her a sparkling look from under his hands.

  "I won't," he added softly, "even mind going to Sunday School, if you were the teacher."

  MACK REYNOLDS

  Dallas McCord "Mack" Reynolds (November 11, 1917 – January 30, 1983) was an American science fiction writer. His pen names included Dallas Ross, Mark Mallory, Clark Collins, Dallas Rose, Guy McCord, Maxine Reynolds, Bob Belmont, and Todd Harding. His work is noteworthy for its focus on socioeconomic speculation, usually expressed in thought-provoking explorations of Utopian societies from a radical, sometime satiric, perspective. He was a considerably popular author from the 1950s to the 1970s, especially with readers of science fiction and fantasy magazines.

  Reynolds was the first author to write an original novel based upon the 1966-1969 NBC television series Star Trek. The book, Mission to Horatius (1968), was aimed at young readers.

  While Reynolds’ fiction spans an array of science fiction elements including time travel, alien visitation, world computers, Amazonian cultures, and intergalactic spy adventures, his radical interrogation of socioeconomic systems sets him apart from other science fiction writers. Accordingly, many of Reynolds’ original contributions to science fiction exist in the form of sociological predictions, some of which have come to pass: the credit-card economy, a worldwide computer network with information available at one's fingertips, a "Common Europe," a basic guaranteed income for every citizen, mobile cities, or global societies with a universal religion and an Esperanto-based common language.

  Reynolds sought to shake his readers' complacent acceptance of Cold War capitalism by depicting a variety of post-capitalist near futures, many of which he envisioned could occur around the year 2000. His stories, therefore, cover an assortment of social systems including anarchy, communism, technocracy, syndicalism, meritocracy, various forms of socialism, and an extrapolation of free-enterprise economics, People's Capitalism. In addition, some of his stories set up a rivalry between a collective and a competitive economy in order to assess their respective merits, sometimes coming to the conclusion that they cannot be compared except for their imperialistic aims, as in the novella "Adaptation," while at other times both systems are revealed to be equally decadent and stagnant, as in the Joe Mauser story "Frigid Fracas." Reynolds' novella "Radical Center" (1967) - portraying radical centrism as a conspiracy of the powerful to render ordinary citizens non-judgmental and apathetic - became the lead story in a university textbook, American Government Through Science Fiction.

  Reynolds has been called a "cautious," "critical," or "ambiguous" Utopian writer because his many explorations of ideal societies, such as his updates of Edward Bellamy's Looking Backward: 2000-1887 and Equality, focus equally on Utopia's dilemmas as on its benefits. Typically, Reynolds' Utopias are worlds of almost complete industrial automation so that no one needs to work, everyone lives in security thanks to a guaranteed basic income, and those who volunteer for the few jobs left are chosen via a quantitative ability test. At the same time, the population's very life of leisure has led to species stasis by discouraging the continual striving that gives humanity its purpose as in the story "Utopian," or the Utopian welfare state has metamorphosed into a caste society where those in power aim to keep it, negating its members the opportunity to exert themselves to the full extent of their abilities, as in the Joe Mauser series.

  Reynolds' heroes usually seek to improve on their societies by direct revolutionary action. Sometimes their revolution is meant to advance a people's level of civilization, as in the case of the North Africa series; sometimes it aims to upset a Utopian society where, while there is no want, inequality, or conflict, there is also no sense of purpose, as in the novel After Utopia or the possibility of social mobility, as in the Joe Mauser series. Usually, once a revolution has succeeded in subverting the status quo, another revolution follows and subverts it, as in the story "Black Sheep Astray," giving the impression that social change is as endless as it is progressive.

  Status Quo, by Mack Reynolds

  Hugo Nomination for Best Short Story 1962

  In his income bracket and in the suburb in which he lived, government employees in the twenty-five to thirty-five age group were currently wearing tweeds. Tweeds were in. Not to wear tweeds was Non-U.

  Lawrence Woolford wore tweeds. His suit, this morning, had first seen the light of day on a hand loom in Donegal. It had been cut by a Swede widely patronized by serious young career men in Lawrence Woolford's status group; English tailors were out currently and Italians unheard of.

  Woolford sauntered down the walk before his auto-bungalow, scowling at the sportscar at the curb—wrong year, wrong make. He'd have to trade it in on a new model. Which was a shame in a way, he liked the car. However, he had no desire to get a reputation as a weird among colleagues and friends. What was it Senator Carey MacArthur had said the other day? Show me a weird and I'll show you a person who has taken the first step toward being a Commie.

  Woolford slid under the wheel, dropped the lift lever, depressed gently the thrust pedal and took off for downtown Greater Washington. Theoretically, he had another four days of vacation coming to him. He wondered what the Boss wanted. That was the trouble in being one of the Boss' favorite trouble shooters, when trouble arose you wound up in the middle of it. Lawrence Woolford was to the point where he was thinking in terms of graduating out of field work and taking on a desk job which meant promotion in status and pay.

  He turned over his car to a parker at the departmental parking lot and made his way through the entrance utilized by second-grade departmental officials. In another year, he told himself, he'd be using that other door.

  The Boss' reception secretary looked up when Lawrence Woolford entered the anteroom where she presided. “Hello, Larry,” she said. “Hear they called your vacation short. Darn shame.”

  LaVerne Polk was a cute little whizz of efficiency. Like Napoleon and his army, she knew the name of every member of the department and was on a first-name basis with all. However, she was definitely a weird. For instance, styles might come and styles might go, but LaVerne dressed for comfort, did her hair the way she thought it looked best, and wore low-heeled walking shoes on the job. In fact, she was ready and willing to snarl at anyone, no matter how kindly intentioned, who even hinted that her nonconformity didn't help her promotion prospects.

  Woolford said, “Hi, LaVerne. I think the Boss is expecting me.”

  “That he is. Go right in, Larry.”

  She looked after him when he turned and left her desk. Lawrence Woolford cut a pleasant figure as thirty year old bachelors go.

  The Boss looked up from some report on his desk which he'd been frowning at, nodded to his field man and said, “Sit down, Lawrence. I'll be with you in a minute. Please take a look at this while you're waiting.” He handed over a banknote.

  Larry Woolford took it and found himself a comfortable chair. He examined the bill, front and back. It was a fifty dollar note, almost new.

  Finally the Boss, a stocky but impeccable career bureaucrat of the ultra-latest school, scribbled his initials on the report and tossed it into an Out chute. He said to Woolford, “I am sorry to cut short your vacation, Lawrence. I considered giving Walter Foster the assignment, but I think you're the better choice.”

  Larry decided the faint praise routine was the best tactic, said earnestly about his closest rival. “Walt's a good man, sir.” And then, “What's the crisis?”

  “What do you think of that fifty?”

  His trouble shooter looked down at it. “What is there to think about it?”

  The Boss grunted, slid open a desk drawer and brought forth another bill. “Here, look at this, please.”

  It was another fifty. Larry Woolford frowned at it, not getting whatever was going on.

  “Observe the serial numbers,” the Boss said impatiently.

  They were identical.

  Woolford looked up. “Counterfeit. Wh
ich one is the bad one?”

  “That is exactly what we would like to know,” the Boss said.

  Larry Woolford stared at his superior, blinked and then examined the bills again. “A beautiful job,” he said, “but what's it got to do with us, sir? This is Secret Service jurisdiction, counterfeiting.”

  “They called us in on it. They think it might have international ramifications.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. Larry Woolford put the two bills on the Boss' desk and leaned back in his chair, waiting.

  His superior said, “Remember the Nazis turning out American and British banknotes during the Second War?”

  “I was just a kid.”

  “I thought you might have read about it. At any rate, obviously a government—with all its resources—could counterfeit perfectly any currency in the world. It would have the skills, the equipment, the funds to accomplish the task. The Germans turned out hundreds of millions of dollars and pounds with the idea of confounding the Allied financial basics.”

  “And why didn't it work?”

  “The difficulty of getting it into circulation, for one thing. However, they did actually use a quantity. For a time our people were so alarmed that they wouldn't allow any bills to come into this country from Mexico except two-dollar denomination—the one denomination the Germans hadn't bothered to duplicate. Oh, they had the Secret Service in a dither for a time.”

  Woolford was frowning. “What's this got to do with our current situation?”

  The Boss said, “It is only a conjecture. One of those bills is counterfeit but such an excellent reproduction that the skill involved is beyond the resources of any known counterfeiter. Secret Service wants to know if it might be coming from abroad, and, if so, from where. If it's a governmental project, particularly a Soviet Complex one, then it comes into the ken of our particular cloak-and-dagger department.”

  “Yes, sir.” Woolford said. He got up and examined the two bills again. “How'd they ever detect that one was bad?”

  “Pure fortune. A bank clerk with an all but eidetic memory was going through a batch of fifties. It's not too commonly used a denomination, you know. Coincidence was involved since in that same sheaf the serial number was duplicated.”

  “And then?”

  “The reproduction was so perfect that Secret Service was in an immediate uproar. Short of the Nazi effort, there has never been anything like it. A perfect duplication of engraving and paper identically the same. The counterfeiters have even evidently gone to the extent of putting a certain amount of artificial wear on the bills before putting them into circulation.”

  Larry Woolford said, “This is out of my line. How were they able to check further, and how many more did they turn up?”

  “The new I.B.M. sorters help. Secret Service checked every fifty dollar bill in every institution in town both banking and governmental. Thus far, they have located ten bills in all.”

  “And other cities?”

  “None. They've all been passed in Greater Washington, which is suspicious in itself. The amount of expense that has gone into the manufacture of these bills does not allow for only a handful of them being passed. They should be turning up in number. Lawrence, this reproduction is such that a pusher could walk into a bank and have his false currency changed by any clerk.”

  “Wow,” Larry whistled.

  “Indeed.”

  “So you want me to work with Secret Service on this on the off chance that the Soviet Complex is doing us deliberate dirt.”

  “That is exactly the idea, Lawrence. Get to work, please, and keep in touch with me. If you need support, I can assign Walter Foster or some of the other operatives to assist you. This might have endless ramifications.”

  ***

  Back in the anteroom, Woolford said to the Boss' receptionist, “I'm on a local job, LaVerne, how about assigning me a girl?”

  “Can do,” she said.

  “And, look, tell her to get hold of every available work on counterfeiting and pile it on my desk.”

  “Right. Thinking of going into business, Larry?”

  He grinned down at her. “That's the idea. Keeping up with the Jones clan in this man's town costs roughly twice my income.”

  LaVerne said disapprovingly, “Then why not give it up? With the classification you've got a single man ought to be able to save half his pay.” She added, more quietly, “Or get married and support a family.”

  “Save half my pay?” Larry snorted. “And get a far out reputation, eh? No thanks, you can't afford to be a weird these days.”

  She flushed—and damn prettily, Larry Woolford decided. She could be an attractive item if it wasn't for obviously getting her kicks out of being individualistic.

  Larry said suddenly, “Look, promise like a good girl not to make us conspicuous and I'll take you to the Swank Room for dinner tonight.”

  “Is that where all the bright young men currently have to be seen once or twice a week?” she snapped back at him. “Get lost, Larry. Being a healthy, normal woman I'm interested in men, but not necessarily in walking status-symbols.”

  It was his turn to flush, and, he decided wryly, he probably didn't do it as prettily as she did.

  On his way to his office, he wondered why the Boss kept her on. Classically, a secretary-receptionist should have every pore in place, but in her time LaVerne Polk must have caused more than one bureaucratic eyebrow to raise. Efficiency was probably the answer; the Boss couldn't afford to let her go.

  Larry Woolford's office wasn't much more than a cubicle. He sat down at the desk and banged a drawer or two open and closed. He liked the work, liked the department, but theoretically he still had several days of vacation and hated to get back into routine.

  Had he known it, this was hardly going to be routine.

  He flicked the phone finally and asked for an outline. He dialed three numbers before getting his subject. The phone screen remained blank.

  “Hans?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.”

  The Teutonic accent was heavy, the voice bluff. “Ah, Larry! you need some assistance to make your vacation? Perhaps a sinister, exotic young lady, complete with long cigarette holder?”

  Larry Woolford growled, “How'd you know I was on vacation?”

  The other laughed. “You know better than to ask that, my friend.”

  Larry said, “The vacation is over, Hans. I need some information.”

  The voice was more guarded now. “I owe you a favor or two.”

  “Don't you though? Look, Hans, what's new in the Russkie camp?”

  The heartiness was gone. “How do you mean?”

  “Is there anything big stirring? Is there anyone new in this country from the Soviet Complex?”

  “Well now—” the other's voice drifted away.

  Larry Woolford said impatiently, “Look, Hans, let's don't waste time fencing. You run a clearing agency for, ah, information. You're strictly a businessman, nonpartisan, so to speak. Fine, thus far our department has tolerated you. Perhaps we'll continue to. Perhaps the reason is that we figure we get more out of your existence than we lose. The Russkies evidently figure the same way, the proof being that you're alive and have branches in the capitals of every power on Earth.”

  “All right, all right,” the German said. “Let me think a moment. Can you give me an idea of what you're looking for?” There was an undernote of interest in the voice now.

  “No. I just want to know if you've heard anything new anti-my-side, from the other side. Or if you know of any fresh personnel recently from there.”

  “Frankly, I haven't. If you could give me a hint.”

  “I can't,” Larry said. “Look, Hans, like you say, you owe me a favor or two. If something comes up, let me know. Then I'll owe you one.”

  The voice was jovial again. “It's a bargain, my friend.”

  After Woolford had hung up, he scowled at the phone. He wondered if Hans Distelmayer was lying. The German commanded the largest pr
ofessional spy ring in the world. It was possible, but difficult, for anything in espionage to develop without his having an inkling.

  The phone rang back. It was Steve Hackett of Secret Service on the screen.

  Hackett said, “Woolford, you coming over? I understand you've been assigned to get in our hair on this job.”

  “Huh,” Larry grunted. “The way I hear it, your whole department has given up, so I'm assigned to help you out of your usual fumble-fingered confusion.”

  Hackett snorted. “At any rate, can you drop over? I'm to work in liaison with you.”

  “Coming,” Larry said. He hung up, got to his feet and headed for the door. If they could crack this thing the first day, he'd take up that vacation where it'd been interrupted and possibly be able to wangle a few more days out of the Boss to boot.

  At this time of day, parking would have been a problem, in spite of automation of the streets. He left his car in the departmental lot and took a cab.

  ***

  The Counterfeit Division of the Secret Service occupied an impressive section of an impressive governmental building. Larry Woolford flashed his credentials here and there, explained to guards and receptionists here and there, and finally wound up in Steve Hackett's office which was all but a duplicate of his own in size and decor.

  Steve Hackett himself was a fairly accurate carbon copy of Woolford, barring facial resemblance alone. The fact was, Steve was almost Lincolnesque in his ugliness. Career man, about thirty, good university, crew cut, six foot, one hundred and seventy, earnest of eye. He wore Harris tweed. Larry Woolford made a note of that; possibly herringbone was coming back in. He winced at the thought of a major change in his wardrobe; it'd cost a fortune.

  They'd worked on a few cases together before when Steve Hackett had been assigned to the presidential bodyguard and co-operated well.

  Steve came to his feet and shook hands. “Thought that you were going to be down in Florida bass fishing this month. You like your work so well you can't stay away, or is it a matter of trying to impress your chief?”