The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Martin Gunther said calmly, “Are you through?”

  “Yes. For the time,” Watson nodded.

  “Very well. Then this is our progress report. In the past forty years we have eliminated feudalism in all the more advanced countries. Even in the remote areas the pressures of our changing world are bringing them around. The populace of these countries will no longer stand to one side while the standard of living on the rest of Genoa grows so rapidly. On most of our planet, already the average family not only enjoys freedom but a way of life far in advance of that of Texcoco. Already modern housing and household appliances are everywhere. Already both land cars and aircraft are available to the majority. The nations have formed an Inter-Continental League of governments so that it is unlikely that war will ever touch us again. And this is merely a beginning. In ten years, continuing our freely competitive way of developing, all will be living on a scale that only the wealthy can afford today.”

  He came to an end and stared antagonistically at the Texcocans.

  Taller said, “There seems to be no agreement.”

  Across the table from him the ancient Honorable Russ said, “It is difficult to measure. We seem to count refrigerators and privately owned automobiles. You seem to ignore personal standards and concentrate on steel tonnage.”

  The Texcocan scientist, Wiss, said easily, “Given the steel mills, and eventually automobiles and refrigerators will run off our assembly lines like water, and will be available for everyone, not just those who can afford to buy them.”

  “Hm-m-m, eventually,” Peter MacDonald laughed nastily.

  The atmosphere was suddenly hostile. Hostile beyond anything that had gone before in earlier conferences.

  And then Martin Gunther said without inflection, “I note that you have removed from the Pedagogue’s library the information dealing with nuclear fission.”

  “For the purpose of study,” Dick Hawkins said smoothly.

  “Of course,” Gunther said. “Did you plan to return it in the immediate future?”

  “I’m afraid our studies will take some time,” Watson said flatly.

  “I was afraid so,” Gunther said. “Happily, I took the precaution of making microfilms of the material involved more than a year ago.”

  Barry Watson pushed his chair back. “We seem to have accomplished what was possible by this conference,” he said. “If anything.” He looked to right and left at his cohorts. “Let’s go.”

  They came stiffly erect. Watson turned on his heel and started for the door.

  As they left, Natt Roberts turned for a moment and said to Gunther, “One thing, Martin. During this next ten years you might consider whether or not half a century has been enough to accomplish our task. Should we consider staying on? I would think the Co-ordinator would accept any recommendation along this line that we might make.”

  The Genoese contingent looked after him, long after he was gone.

  Finally Martin Gunther said, “Baron Leonar, I think it might be a good idea if you began putting some of your men to work on making steel alloys suitable for spacecraft. The way things are developing, perhaps we’ll be needing them.”

  Buchwald and MacDonald looked at him unblinkingly.

  XII.

  It was fifty years to a day since the Pedagogue had first gone into orbit about Rigel. Five decades have passed. Half a century.

  Of the original crew of the Pedagogue, six now gathered in the lounge of the spaceship. All of them had changed physically. Some of them softer to the point of flabbiness; some harder both of body and soul.

  Barry Watson, Natt Roberts, Dick Hawkins, of the Texcocan team.

  Martin Gunther, Peter MacDonald, Fredric Buchwald, of the Genoese.

  The gathering wasn’t so large as the one before. Only Taller and the scientist Wiss attended from Texcoco; only Baron Leonar and the son of Honorable Russ from Genoa.

  From the beginning they stared with hostility across the conference table. Even the pretense of amiability was gone.

  Watson rapped finally, “I am not going to dwell upon the measures you have been taking that can only be construed as military ones aimed eventually at the Texcocan State.”

  Martin Gunther laughed nastily. “Is your implication that your own people have not taken the same measures, in fact, inaugurated them?”

  Watson said, “As I say, I have no intention of even discussing this. Surely we can arrive at no agreement. There is one point, however that we should consider on this occasion.”

  The corpulent Peter MacDonald wheezed, “Well, out with it!”

  Natt Roberts said, “I mentioned the matter to you at the last meeting.”

  “Ah, yes,” Gunther nodded. “Just as you left. We have considered it.”

  The Texcocans waited for him to go on.

  “If I understand you,” Gunther said, “you think we should reconsider returning to Terra City at this time.”

  “It should be discussed,” Watson nodded. “Whatever the…ah…temporary difficulties between us, the original project of the Pedagogue is still our duty.”

  The three of the Genoese team nodded their agreement.

  “And the problem becomes, have we accomplished completely what we set out to do? And, further, is it necessary, or at least preferable, for us to stay on and continue administration of the progress of the Rigel planets?”

  They thought about it.

  Buchwald said hesitantly, “It has been my own belief that Genoa is not quite ready for us to let loose the…ah, reins. If we left now, I am not sure—”

  Roberts said, “Same applies to Texcoco. The State has made fabulous strides, but I am not sure what would happen if we leaders were to leave. There might be a complete collapse.”

  Watson said, “We seem to be in basic agreement. Is a suggestion in order that we extend, for another twenty-five years, at least, this expedition’s work?”

  Dick Hawkins said, “The Office of Galactic Colonization—”

  MacDonald said smoothly, “Will undoubtedly send out a ship to investigate. We shall simply inform them that things are not as yet propitious to our leaving, that another twenty-five years is in order. Since we are on the scene, undoubtedly our recommendation will be heeded.”

  Watson looked from one Earthman to the next. “We are in agreement?”

  Each in turn nodded.

  Peter MacDonald said, “And do you all realize that here we have a unique situation that might be exploited for the benefit of the whole race?”

  They looked to him, questioningly.

  “The dynamic we find in Genoa—and Texcoco, too, for that matter, though we disagree on so many fundamentals—is beyond that in the Solar System. These are new planets, new ambitions are alive. We have at our fingertips man’s highest developments, evolved on Earth. But with this new dynamic, this freshness, might we not in time push even beyond old Earth?”

  “You mean—” Natt Roberts said.

  MacDonald nodded. “What particular of value is gained by our uniting Genoa and Texcoco with the so-called Galactic Commonwealth? Why not press ahead on our own? With the vigor of these new races we might well leave Earth far behind.”

  Watson mused, “Carrying your suggestion to the ultimate, who is to say that one day Rigel might not become the new center of the human race, rather than Sol?”

  “A point well taken,” Gunther agreed.

  “No,” Taller said softly.

  The six Earthmen turned hostile eyes to him.

  “This particular matter does not concern you, Generalissimo,” Watson rapped at him.

  Taller smiled his amusement at that and came to his feet.

  “No,” he said. “I am afraid that hard though it might be for you to give up the powers you have held so long, you Earthlings are going to have to return to Terra City, from whence you came.”

  Baron Leonar said in gentle agreement, “Obviously.”

  “What is this?” Watson rapped. “I’m not at all amused.”

>   The Honorable Russ stood also. “There is no use prolonging this. I have heard you Earthlings say, more than once, that man adapts to preserve himself. Very well, we of Genoa and Texcoco are adapting to the present situation. We are of the belief that if you are allowed to remain in power we of the Rigel planets will be destroyed, probably in an atomic holocaust. In self-protection we have found it necessary to unite, we Genoese and Texcocans. We bear you no ill will, far to the contrary. However, it is necessary that you all return to Earth. You have impressed upon us the aforementioned truism that man adapts but in the Pedagogue’s library I have found another that also applies. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

  There were heavy automatics in the hands of Natt Roberts and Dick Hawkins. Barry Watson leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrow. “How’d you ever expect to get away with this sort of treason, Taller?”

  Martin Gunther blurted, “Or you, Russ?”

  Wiss, the Texcocan scientist, held his wrist radio to his mouth and said, “Come in now.”

  Dick Hawkins thumbed back the hammer of his hand gun.

  “Hold it a minute, Dick,” Barry Watson said. “I don’t like this.” To Taller he rapped, “What goes on here? Talk up, you’re just about a dead man.”

  And it was then that they heard the scraping on the outer hull.

  The six Earthmen looked at the overhead, dumfounded.

  “I suggest you put up your weapons,” Taller said quietly. “At this late stage I would hate to see further bloodshed.”

  In moments they heard the opening and closing of locks and footsteps along the corridor. The door opened and in stepped,

  Joe Chessman, Amschel Mayer, Mike Dean, Louis Rosetti, and an emaciated Jerry Kennedy. Their expressions ran the gamut from sheepishness to blank haughtiness.

  MacDonald bug-eyed. “Dean…Rosetti…the Temple priests burned you at the stake!”

  They grinned at him, shamefaced. “Guess not,” Dean said. “We were kidnaped. We’ve been teaching basic science, in some phony monastery.”

  Watson’s face was white. “Joe,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Joe Chessman growled. “You sold me out. But Taller and the Texcocans thought I was still of some use.”

  Amschel Mayer snapped, bitterly, “And now if you fools will put down your stupid guns, we’ll make the final arrangements for returning this expedition to Terra City. Personally, I’ll be glad to get away!”

  Behind the five resurrected Earthmen were a sea of faces representing the foremost figures of both Texcoco and Genoa in every field of endeavor. At least fifty of them in all.

  As though protectively, the eleven Earthmen ganged together at the far side of the messtable they’d met over so often.

  Martin Gunther, his expression dazed, said, “I…I don’t—”

  Taller resumed his spokesmanship. “From the first the most progressive elements on both Texcoco and Genoa realized the value of your expedition and have been in fundamental sympathy with the aims the Pedagogue originally had. Primitive life is not idyllic. Until man is free from nature’s tyranny and has solved the basic problems of sufficient food, clothing, shelter, medical care and education for all, he is unable to realize himself. So we co-operated with you to the extent we found possible.”

  His smile was grim. “I am afraid that almost from the beginning, and on both planets, your very actions developed an…underground, I believe you call it. Not an overt one, since we needed your assistance to build the new industrialized culture you showed us was possible. We even protected you against yourselves, since it soon became obvious that if left alone you’d destroy each other in your addiction to power.”

  Baron Leonar broke in, “Don’t misunderstand. It wasn’t until the past couple of decades that this underground which had sprung up independently on both planets, amalgamated.”

  Barry Watson blurted, “But Joe…Chessman—” he refused to meet the eye of the man he’d condemned.

  Taller said, “From the first you made no effort to study our customs. If you had, you’d have realized why my father allied himself to you after you’d killed Taller First. And why I did not take my revenge on Chessman after he’d killed Reif. A Khan’s first training is that no personal emotion must interfere with the needs of the People. When you turned Joe Chessman over to me, I realized his education, his abilities were too great to destroy. We sent him to a mountain university and have used him profitably all these years. In fact, it was Chessman who finally brought us to space travel.”

  “That’s right,” Buchwald blurted. “You’ve got a spaceship out there. How could you possibly—?”

  Taller said mildly, “There are but a handful of you, you could hardly keep track of two whole planets and all that went on upon them.”

  Amschel Mayer said bitingly, “All this can be gone over on our return to Terra City. We’ll have a full year to explain to ourselves and each other why we became such complete idiots. I was originally head of this expedition—before my supposed friends railroaded me to prison—does anyone object if I take over again?”

  “No,” Joe Chessman growled.

  The others shook their heads.

  Taller said, “There is but one other thing. In spite of how you may feel at this moment of embarrassment, basically you have succeeded in your task. That is, you have brought Texcoco and Genoa to an industrialized culture. We hold various reservations about how you accomplished this. However, when you return to your Co-ordinator of Galactic Colonization, please inform him that we are anxious to receive his ambassadors. The term is ambassadors and we will expect to meet on a basis of equality. Surely in all Earth’s millennia of social evolution man has worked out something better than either of your teams have built here. We should like to be instructed.”

  Dick Hawkins said stiffly, “We can instruct you on Earth’s present socio-economic system.”

  “I am afraid we no longer trust you, Richard Hawkins. Send others—uncorrupted by power, privilege or great wealth.”

  * * * *

  When they had gone and the sound of their departing spacecraft had faded, Amschel Mayer snapped, “We might as well get underway. And cheer up, confound it, we have lots of time to contrive a reasonable report for the Co-ordinator.”

  Jerry Kennedy managed a thin grin, almost reminiscent of the younger Kennedy of the first years on Genoa. “Say,” he said, “I wonder if we’ll be granted a good long vacation before being sent on another assignment.”

  STOWAWAY

  Lieutenant Johnny Norsen, his lanky body sprawled uncomfortably in an acceleration chair, was playing Spartan rules with the darts, and paused only momentarily before each shot. Spartan rules were pretty Spartan, but in spite of the handicaps he hit the bull’s eye six times out of six and grunted in disgust.

  He complained, to no one in particular, “This was a swell game when we first brought it aboard. Now everybody is as good as it’s possible to get. We might as well flush it overboard.”

  No one in particular happened to be Dick Roland, ship’s navigator. He looked up from the onion skin, paper bound history he was reading. “Ummm,” he said vaguely. “Maybe we could toughen up the rules.”

  “How?” Norsen grumbled. “They’re as tough already as it’s possible to get them. We’d have to close both eyes, or something.” He shifted in his chair, yawned and recrossed his legs. “What in the kert are you reading?”

  “Decline and Fall of the United Stales. Ancient history. What do you think of it?” The navigator was young, rather handsome in an easygoing sort of way, but almost colorless in his lack of aggressiveness.

  Johnny Norsen yawned again. “I don’t like history, so I’ve only read the book four or five times.” He looked up at the earth time chrono on the wall. “Let’s crack today’s video-news.”

  Dick Roland followed his eyes. “We’ve still got five minutes to go,” he protested mildly.

  The other was irritated. “Five minutes, ten minutes, what’s the difference?
Today is today. It’s not as though we were cracking next week’s news. Besides, I think Doc Thorndon’s crazier than a makron. What difference does it make when we show a news wire?”

  He knew the answer to his own question as well as anyone else in the New Taos, but it was something to talk about.

  Dick Roland said, “I think it’s a good idea. Keeps us interested in things. Every day we can look forward to getting the news. Sure, it’s a full year old, but that doesn’t make any difference to us. We haven’t heard it yet. Doc Thorndon says it’s one way of keeping space cafard from hitting the crew—something new every day, something to look forward to.”

  Norsen screwed up his angular face. “Where’d Doc get the idea, anyway? We never did it before.”

  Dick closed his history and tossed it to the wardroom table. He’d read it half a dozen times already, himself. He said, “You know Doc. Always reading those old books. From what he says, back in ancient times they used to pull the same idea—weather station men who were stuck up in the Artie and snowed in for maybe six months at a crack. They’d have a file of newspapers on hand, and each day they’d take one off the top. The news was exactly one year old, but it didn’t make any difference to them. They hadn’t read it before and so it was as fresh as though it’d just happened. When their supplies came in, in the Spring, they’d get another batch of papers.”

  Lieutenant Norsen looked up at the chrono again. “Well, it’s time now. Let’s crack today’s. I want to see if there’s anything on Jackie Black. It’s about time for him to pull one of his jobs again. That little makron is sure giving the S.S.B.I. a run for their credits.”

  Dick Roland was on his feet and getting the video-news wire from its built-in file. “Ummm,” he said. “Most effective criminal for the past century. If he keeps on making haul after haul, he ought to be set for life pretty soon.”

  Ensign Mart Bakr, his chubby face questioning, and his mouth still working on some tidbit or other, hurried through the wardroom door. “Haven’t started the video-wire yet have—” He saw they were about to run it and interrupted himself. “Good,” he said, and slumped into a chair.