Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians)

by Don Pendleton

  Donaldson was athletically erect and trim, his flesh as firm-toned as that of a man of 30. He wore a pale blue “ginch” which matched exactly the color of his eyes, which, incidentally, were more warm than cold. His hair was blond, wavy, and worn low on the ears and neck in a sort of Mark Twain effect. He had a good smile and a hearty laugh, and Hunter was charmed from the outset, “ginch” and all. The interview went like this:

  “I trust that Mannclift provided you with comfortable accommodations.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, sir; entirely so. Mannclift was entirely accommodating.”

  “Good girl, Mannclift. She was our first child of Olympia. Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes, sir, she told me about that. How do you keep Eagle Squadron off your neck? The flying fuzz, I mean.”

  (Wry laughter). “You’re a very direct person, Hunter. I like that. As for the flying fuzz, I suppose they’re afraid we’ll shoot them down. (More laughter). We could, too, if we took a notion to. Seriously, we’re above all that. (Another laugh). About two miles above it. Are you aware of the fact that you are an employee of Donaldson Diversities?”

  “I heard a vague rumor to that effect. By way of Mannclift.”

  “It’s no rumor. I bought the damn rag. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Why?”

  “Sir?”

  “Why did you buy Weekly?”

  “Because I’m going into politics, and I need a voice to the people.”

  “Why didn’t you buy a television network?”

  (Laughter). “By God, I know I’m going to like you, Hunter. The damn television networks, sir, were not hounding one of my administrative aides.”

  “Meaning Mannclift.”

  “Of course. Why were you hounding Mannclift, Hunter?”

  “She tell you that?”

  “She did. You’ve been following her for more than a week. Why?”

  “Because I suspected, sir, that you were going into politics, and that you were seeking a very direct voice to the people. A veritable hot line to the people, sir.”

  (Uproarious laughter). “To what purpose?”

  “That, sir, is what I was tagging along behind Mannclift to find out.”

  “Good, good. You’ve scored again. All right, what did you find out?”

  “Not a damn thing. Except that you are obviously highly unhappy with my interest.”

  “What’s your present position at Weekly?’

  “I’m the political editor.”

  “Hell, I know that. Tells me nothing. Where do you stand in the chain of command?”

  “I report to the managing editor. He reports to the Publisher, who reports to—”

  “He reports to me, now, and that’s far enough. What do you think of this fellow Martens?”

  “The best M.E. in the business.”

  “You respect him highly, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Like to have his job?”

  “Some day, yes.”

  “Anything wrong with today?”

  “Today? I...No, sir. I’m not ready for it yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a matter of age and experience.”

  “When I was your age I had eight and a half million.”

  “Yes, sir. But you’ve never made it on the editorial staff of a national magazine.”

  (Laughter). “You think not?”

  “Yes, sir. I think not.”

  “Dammit, you always come up with the right answers. Has Mannclift been coaching you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  (Chuckles). “I take it she’s indoctrinated you into our sexual philosophies as well.”

  “I’d call it philosophy in action, sir.”

  (Long silence). “How would you like to stay here and live with us?”

  (Another long silence). “In what capacity, Mr. Donaldson?”

  “Understand one thing right away: Here, I am merely Brian. Understand? Just Brian. Now: Capacity. Oh, yes. I told you that I’m seriously entering the political realm. You’re an objective political intellectual. You’re also an experienced and able journalist. How would you like to be my press secretary?”

  “How would you like to tell me, first, what Mannclift was doing calling on federal electors?”

  (Pause). “Are those people electors?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well. Chalk it up to coincidence. Is that why you were sniffing along behind Mannclift? (Laughter). Did you think I was trying to influence the Electoral College in some way?”

  “Frankly, sir, I had thought about it. It seemed a rather wild idea, but it also seemed worthy of our attention.”

  “And this fellow Martens?”

  “Yes, sir; our views were entirely compatible.”

  “This is the way the managing editor of a national magazine with the stature of Weekly conducts its business?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. If he’s a good editor.”

  (Pause). “I see. Suppose I assured you that I have never at any time entertained any notion of meddling with the Electoral College commitment to Jim Younghart? Would that satisfy your mind?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds like a rather indirect reply to my question.”

  “What do you think of Younghart?”

  “He’s honest. He’ll do his best to be a good President.”

  “But?”

  “No buts. He was the best choice. A majority of the people recognized that fact.”

  “But he is not the best of all possible Presidents?”

  (Pause). “I don’t buy him outright, sir. I’ll be watching him. And I believe that our policy at Weekly should be to nail him thoroughly every time he slips.”

  “Ummm. I sat up half the night last night reading back issues of our magazine. You’re quite expressive, and very impressively so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t believe you’re truly a Younghart type.”

  “I go along with what’s best for the nation, sir.”

  “And you believe yourself to be a competent judge of what’s best for the nation?”

  “It’s either judge or sit on the fence, isn’t it? It’s my job to judge.”

  “Ummm. Hunter, I’ll give you eighty thousand a year, payable in a lump sum ten years from now, or at any time thereafter at your option. In the meantime, your every need will be catered to, and every resource of Donaldson Diversities made available to you. Forty-five days’ vacation every year, anywhere in the world you want to go, at my expense. In exchange, I demand absolute and unyielding loyalty and the very best of your energies. Think about it. Our next flight off the crags departs at four o’clock. Make up your mind by that time.”

  “Did you say eighty thousand a year?”

  “That is correct. No raises, no sliding adjustments either up or down. If you don’t stay out the ten years, you leave penniless. Go think about it. Those are the conditions.”

  “Can I finish my breakfast?”

  (Laughter. “I insist that you do. You know, I hope you decide to stay, Hunter.”

  “Do you conduct all of your business from here?”

  “Of course not. The story that I’m a recluse is entirely false. I just dislike notoriety and fawning idiots. I go out quite often, but I do so inconspicuously. If you decide to come in with us, you too will see plenty of the outside world. I’m not asking you to bury yourself on this mountain-top.”

  “It might not be such a bad idea, at that.”

  “Well, finish your breakfast, then go think about it. Do you like sex with your breakfast?”

  “Sir?”

  “Would you like to have a girl to share your couch?”

  “Oh. No, sir. Thank you just the same. Food is what I need most right now.”

  “Mannclift gave you hell, did she?”

  “Uh...”

  “Don’t be embarrassed by sexual directness, Hunter. It’s a way of life here. It’s as natural as bacon and eggs, and that’s the way it was mean
t to be. Do you agree with that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, we have a few switch-hitters around here, too. Anything goes, so long as it doesn’t exceed the bounds of good taste. Have you ever tried men?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Me either. But to each his own, so long as the place doesn’t become a fairy colony. These grapes were flown up from Lodi, California. Good, eh? Tell me, Hunter: What do you think of that classic line by Goldwater about extremism in the defense of one’s country being a virtue? You know what Nietzsche had to say in that same vein? He said that....”

  And so went the interview. A very puzzled, confused and frightened young political writer excused himself some minutes later and went in search of his soul.

  8: DECISION

  Reproduced below is an undated manuscript which was found in the unpublished papers of Richard Hunter.

  I am not writing this for publication. I am writing simply because I think best when writing, and there’s some important thinking to be done.

  They call this place Olympia; certainly it is a synthetic one, to say the least. Donaldson has conquered a hostile environment to produce one of the most beguiling of all societies. Several hundred people are perched atop this rock. Outside temperatures often drop to minus-thirty, and the wind hasn’t stopped blowing since my arrival, yet the uniform of the day for about 95 per cent of the inhabitants could be carried in an aspirin box. He has a fantastic environmental-control system built into this main building, and most of the people live here, sleeping in little womb-like cells which Mannclift calls “cops”—short, I take it, for copulation rooms.

  There are bungalows down on the flats for married couples. These people are excluded from Olympia (kicked out of Paradise?) during their “family” years. I understand that any couple beyond a certain age—25, I believe—can petition for marriage and children. Brian himself usually performs the ceremony, I’m told, and the transaction is duly recorded at the state capital. There’s some sort of special financial arrangement for the “families;” I don’t know the particulars yet, but I have the impression that it’s generally regarded as very favorable for the persons involved. I’m told that “school” begins for the children born here on their second birthday. I don’t know just what sort of curriculum is involved for the tots, but it does seem to be some organized academic program. Once married, you are stuck with each other here for at least as long as any “immature” children are on the scene. During that period the married men commute daily from the flats to Olympia; the women aren’t allowed to work; period. Brian seems to be very firmly positioned on the matter of home and family environment for the childhood years.

  Everybody here seems perfectly happy. This is what’s so amazing. Martens wasn’t kidding as much as he might have believed when he said that Jackass Crags was not a part of the United States. There is a monarchy here, and Brian is the monarch. Yet there seems to be almost unlimited freedom within certain bounds, and Brian is obviously well loved by one and all.

  I ran into a couple of young teenagers on Level Three today. Each carried a mechanical gadget about the size of a shoe-box which I discovered is a programmed teaching device. They were sitting on a couch on the observation deck, running through some calculus problems on their teaching machines. I sure wasn’t working problems in calculus at that age.

  These kids have presented the largest question to my mind. They seem so natural and unaffected—everything around this damn place is natural and unaffected, but the kids, in particular call up a picture of a whole new race of beings; I couldn’t help comparing these two (and I presume that they are representative) to the mobs of ragged, bearded, wild-eyed and eagerly obscene so-called intellectuals who did everything but turn our elective processes topsy-turvy this year.

  Brian himself, though, is the true enigma. I find myself absolutely drawn to the man; at the same time, I can’t shake the feeling that he stands for something essentially evil. He is, you see, one of those rare birds who is absolute. By that I mean he answers, apparently, to no higher power. He is, in truth, an Olympian—at least in the recesses of his own mind. And that, I fear, is where every man’s true Olympia is seated: in the recesses of his mind. A man who feels no obligation to history, no duty to popular philosophies, and who pays allegiance only to his own visions is a very, very dangerous man indeed.

  Now: Why would a man like Brian Donaldson, a true Olympian, feel a desire to “enter politics?” On a national scale. To what purpose? Why expose himself now to the masses he has so diligently avoided for so many years? He says he wants a “press secretary”—this from a man who has been all but psychotic in his insistence on absolute privacy for as many years as I’ve been alive. What is this new game? What is his goal? What are the motivations? Is he merely becoming bored with Olympia, or does he feel the call of some perverse destiny? Why did he really bring me here? Was I, in my stumbling through the dark, beginning to get into his hair?

  Was I upsetting some of his plans? What deep designs prompted him to suddenly “acquire” one of the most influential national magazines in the country? Why really has he been establishing contacts with federal electors—electors who were selected for this election year only! What does he intend to accomplish, through these contacts, that could bear any sane fruit between now and the 16th of December, when our next President and Vice-President are officially chosen by these same electors?

  Yes, Hunter, it’s a time for thinking. Instead, I find myself fighting rationalizations and resisting the lulling tug of Olympia. Already, in the first few hours of this impossible day, I have been exposed to the unclad bodies of perhaps a hundred sexually desirable young women. Mannclift’s office alone houses about a dozen of them, in every shade, size, and form to please the most discerning eye. They grow ’em beautiful up here, and they educate ’em in the wondrous Olympian ways of Eros...and it all seems sane, natural, good and right. Add to all this the sense of power, achievement and self-development I visualize every time I think of Brian’s offer to join his staff. How many ambitious 28-year-old men would think twice about the opportunity to sit at the right hand of a man such as Brian Donaldson? And if his offer’s on the level, and if he himself is on the level, where will Richard Hunter be, just ten years from now? After ten years of moving in the highest circles of national and international finance, and perhaps politics...and with eight hundred thousand bucks in my poke! Aw, Hunter, Hunter, think about it. Think about it!

  What brought you here in the first place? Even if something diabolical is in the offing, what could you do to stop or even hamper it? Brian has shown you his power; he simply pushed a button and bought your employer. And he has shown you his grace: Ah, Olympia!

  You’re an incurable romantic, my friend. You have the curse of journalism in your bones. Where there is beauty, you will find filth; where filth, value; where mundane, heavenly intervention; where drudgery, romance. Wake up and look at yourself. Could one man—any one man—pose any sort of serious threat to the institutions which have become America? Forget journalistic romance and face the question. This nation has endured every conceivable danger, both from within and from without. Can you imagine yourself to be some sort of a savior of such a nation?

  Let’s give Olympia a try, Hunter. Let’s make our pledge to the Olympian, and in all good faith, but let’s keep a corner of the mind open to unravel the mystery of this man. And what better observation post than at his right hand?

  Eh? How about it, Hunter? Shall we sit at the right hand of The Olympian?

  The ginch society, Hunter, at the moment, is the only logical course. And may God forgive your un-Olympian soul!

  BOOK II

  DECEMBER

  1: A FIXED EVENT

  “I said Jim Younghart is dead! Dead!”

  “Wait...wait a minute,” Saul Martens said weakly. He pulled the telephone slowly away from his head, stared at it, then carefully replaced it to his ear, as though the maneuver would change the mess
age that had just come through. “Say that again now, Pete.”

  “Hell, I’ve said it three times already. Younghart is flat, clear-outta-your-skull dead! They’re still looking for the pieces. Blown to kingdom come, that’s what. So’s Thompkins. Went with ’im all the way, he did; right through the roof of the Ambassador Club.”

  Martens was glaring at his wristwatch, trying to focus on the faintly luminous dial. He couldn’t make it. “What time is it, Pete?” he asked thickly.

  “Nearly two o’clock. Are you awake, Saul? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “I understand,” Martens replied, his voice going into eclipse. “What happened?”

  “An explosion. In the basement of the Ambassador Club. Younghart and Thompkins were guests of honor at this banquet, you know, the diplomatic corps shindig. Nobody’s saying for sure yet, but the fire marshal has unofficially said it looks like a ruptured gas main. They’re still fighting the fire. There must be a thousand firemen around here. You want to get down here, Saul? Want me to send somebody to pick you up?”

  “You’re on the scene, eh?”

  “Yeah. I’m calling on my cell phone. Hey! Gene Fletcher, the FBI bureau chief, just walked past! I gotta go! You coming down?”

  “Where the hell was the Secret Service?” Martens asked wearily.

  “Look, Saul, you don’t have the picture. There’s bodies blown all over the neighborhood. I don’t imagine anybody came out of it alive. I was late, or I’d—Look, I gotta catch Fletcher!”