Nova 3

by Anthology

  What a way to go!

  The little man came out smiling. “I knew I’d be captured,” he said. “Everything’s so organized! But it was worth it just to give it a try and get away for a while from that pod. I didn’t have any idea of doing anything to upset anything, like, say, a population status quo. Just wanted to get away. For my own special reasons. Besides, ‘doing anything’ still takes two, doesn’t it? Hee hee hee.”

  “Man, it must be really bad in your pod of detainees or your stick of potential population disrupters, as it were,” I allowed, trying to strike contact with the skimpy one and ease him a little across Old Bronk’s icy pose. Maybe the runt man really was a pretty decent sort, and something in conditions had just for the nonce got him, had become intolerable for him and had set him off for a sinner’s and a criminal’s show. Guess that could happen to anyone, anyone at all. Some time. He just stared for now, his mouth seeming not able to do it, break out for words, I mean.

  “What do you guys do?” I went ahead. “Stamp and fuss and bellow around a lot, like hard-up old mount-on cattle bulls inside a tightass fence?”

  “Nah,” he said, finally unlocking his jaws for speech let loose in a flood, “not at all in my pod or stick of detention, we don’t do that, and it’s not what you think over there, it’s not. Not really at all. Sure, we’re in the drawers, as everyone else is in the drawers, of a certain age now, but we don’t register much on the Tote Boards, not much at all ordinarily, we don’t, I’m sure of that. Just pretty stable in my pod mostly, and we all know we’re doing this bit just because of the law and the times and we suffer it out, or not really suffer, I mean, but do it because most of us over in my slab were old marrieds on the outside, anyway, and very very used to nothing much most of the time and pretty generally all along and steadily. For years and years and years! Except for outside noises, I could—”

  “What is it then?” Old Bronk cut in curtly. “Why are you out here wastin’ the government’s time, money and patience this-a-way by causin’ a chase? Do you realize what each break like this costs your government in wear and tear on scoot tires, scoots, fuel, general mobilization for standby, extra marshals’ time for those alerted from off-time to draw overtime, not to mention the intangibles, such as potential danger to life and limb of the personnel of the scoot troops, both active and on-call; not to add the price for the Service Riders’ service time, both man and vehicular, when and if we apprehend? Do you?”

  He shook his head, entirely dumbfounded and struck giddy by Old Bronk’s intensity, I could tell. “Besides, you know you can be shot for somethin’ like this, breakin’ the law,” Old Bronk brayed on. “Yeh’re not only technically, but actually and actively a lapsed pant, man! Yeh’re Ecol drawers are showin’, boy. Like statutory rape in the old days, man, it’s open and a shut case. Yeh’re in a heap of trouble, plenty, and you know it, fellah. Yeh’re guilty for all that anyone could say.”

  “I’m guilty,” he said, “sure. But not like you think. Hell, I’ve still got on my drawers.” And he pulled up the inmate’s loose-fitted striped gown to show us his undies, and it was so! Even the plug-ins were still on them, flapping and dangling.

  “But—but—” Old Bronk sputtered now, coming loose from his starched shiny pose, “what in the thunderin’ hell—?”

  “Just my kind of luck,” the small one rambled on. “When our district got the orders, down from Central Birth Freeze, and we were all Ecoled in for those control pants, my wife, old fridgy-fridge herself, was billeted in the women’s control compound right on the other side of my little cubicle in the pod. Just my kind of rotten luck that this one-in-an-umpteen-thousand-chance kind of rotten thing would happen to me. Well, she’d keep screechin’, see, just as she will when I go back, and she learns I’m there. Screechin’ and screechin’ through the walls.”

  “Wanted you over there, huh?” says Old Bronk, a hell of a lawman, but very short sometimes on practicals, I have to say. “Wanted you to tear right through them walls to get to her, huh, so you two could go to town? Go to bed, I mean! Haw haw hee.”

  “Nah nah nah, not at all at all. And I can sure tell you’ve never been hitched, not for any length. She just kept screechin’, ‘Ha, ha, ha, you homy old goat meat. Ha, ha, ha! They gotcha now! They gotcha! And that’ll show ya how to quit bein’ a pig.’ Twice a year—on the good years!—was piggy?”

  So we put the Ecol handcuffs on him and led him over to a bright orange talk-in pole nearby where we could call for a wagon that would take him on down. The wagon Service Riders, more infirm and less glamorous than the scoot patrol troops such as Bronk and I, some even old ladies, would take him back to his compound and hook him into his circuit where his Ecol undies would again start registering all of his erotic urges, on the big Tote Boards in Ecol 2. And this is S.O.P. now for every breed-capable male and female on the whole Ecol-threatened earth, all over the world! They are somewhere in their compounds, in Ecol drawers, registering their erotic urges, and none, for all the risks involved, is allowed to do anything about it until someone dies in the district of responsibility. Then the couple, male and female, next in line . . . married, of course . . . or a service performed on the spot before they do it to keep everything decent . . . for those who care . . .

  “I still say it was worth it. For a while . . . just to get away . . .” This I heard him muttering as the Service Riders, two perky old gun-swung ladies so it chanced, about seventy-five years young, loaded him in to whisk him back to that control cubicle just a thin wall away from old fridgy-fridge, his wife. Under the circumstances this time all other punishment for breakout was waived!

  THE COLD WAR,

  CONTINUED

  By MACK REYNOLDS

  Mack Reynolds is science fiction’s political prodder, one of the few authors who is capable of visualizing something more than feudalistic capitalism or intergalactic empires in the future. His stories actually project present political situations into the years ahead to see how they might develop in a realistic and logical fashion. That he can do this as entertainment, not lecture, is a blessing we should be thankful for.

  HAPPILY, IT WAS a grim night. It was cloudy and there was a fine drizzle. Paul Kosloff didn’t know whether or not the grounds of the mansion were patrolled, either by men or by dogs, but, if they were, either man or beast was going to be shelter conscious.

  Most likely, the grounds were so patrolled. The one he was seeking out was known to be security conscious almost to the point of phobia.

  The iron picket fence surrounding the estate was his first hurdle. There were no trees near it and it was too high to easily climb. Besides, undoubtedly it was gimmick wired at the top in such manner as to tip off the guards—either that or electrocute him. He was going to have to go through it.

  The main gate was out of the question. He had seen the two men stationed there, one to each side in armored booths and undoubtedly armed to the molars. He continued to stroll along, on the other side of the street, following the fence. And, yes, behind the house was a smaller gate and unattended.

  Paul Kosloff crossed over to it. It had a heavy lock. He brought a scrambler from his pocket and activated it, then an electronic lock pick which he had gotten from the boys in the Rube Goldberg department. Its magnets sucked up to the lock, over the keyhole, and he slowly rotated it. When the lock reluctantly gave up its secrets, he pushed the gate open and slipped through. He relocked it, then deactivated the scrambler.

  Thus far things were going better than he had hoped. Bending almost double, he scurried toward the rear of the mansion.

  Luckily, this part of the estate was in gardens, complete with trees, complete with shrubs. He had a good chance of going undetected, certainly until he got reasonably near the house.

  The dog, running hard, a brown streak with distended, slavering jaws, was almost upon him before he spotted it. A Doberman pinscher, recognizable even in this light by its long forelegs and wide hindquarters.

  Paul Kosloff h
ad worked out with war dogs while taking commando training long years before. He had just time to fling himself into position before the dog jumped. He spun sideward to the left and his right hand shot out and grasped the right paw of the large smooth-coated terrier. He continued to swing mightily. The dog had time for only one loud yelp of confusion, before he smashed it into the trunk of a tree.

  It fell to the ground, momentarily, at least, stunned. Paul Kosloff, to make sure, kicked it twice in the side of the head, immediately behind the clipped ears.

  He wiped the back of his left hand over his forehead, finding a beading of cold sweat there. He shook his head and continued on his way toward the house.

  A chink of light began to manifest itself, and a door was opening. He dodged behind the bole of a large tree, and flattened himself against it.

  A voice called, “Roger! Is that you, boy?”

  Paul Kosloff held his breath.

  “Roger! What have you got, boy?”

  A few moments later, there was a curse and Paul Kosloff could hear someone approaching.

  The voice was closer this time. “Here boy, here boy. Damn it, what were you yelping about?”

  As the footsteps came closer, Paul Kosloff slithered around the tree trunk, keeping it between himself and the other.

  Completely on the other side, he bent double once again and headed for the house and the open door. It was all in the laps of the gods, now. Was there anyone else on the inside? Behind him, he could hear the guard, still calling the Doberman. The fat was going to be in the fire if he discovered the unconscious watchdog.

  Paul Kosloff hurried into the interior of the large house and found himself in a small guard room, furnished only with a single table and two chairs. On the walls were flak rifles, shotguns and laser beam pistols.

  There was another door at the far side of the room. He got through it in a hurry and closed it behind him before speeding down the dimly lit hall beyond. Given luck, he wouldn’t run into any servants. Not at this time of night. It was past two o’clock.

  He came to a small elevator and looked at it for a moment, but then shook his head. The man he was seeking was noted as a nut on burglar alarms and related devices. He might have even something like an elevator rigged.

  He found a flight of narrow circling stairs slightly beyond. A servant stairway by the looks of it. He started up. His destination was on the third floor, he knew. He wondered if there were more guards.

  At the third floor, he peered cautiously down the ornate hallway. And, yes, there was a guard before the door that was his goal.

  The other’s back was turned. Paul Kosloff took a desperate chance and sped across the heavily carpeted hall to the room opposite. The chance paid off. The door was unlocked. He entered the room beyond quickly, closed the door behind him.

  He fumbled at the wall for a light switch and found it. The plans of the mansion he had studied had been correct. It was a billiards room, the table in the exact center. He strode over to it, took up the eight ball and then returned to the door and flicked off the light.

  He had to gamble now that the guard’s back was still turned. If it wasn’t, he’d had it. He opened the door a narrow crack and rolled the ball toward the circular staircase. It began to bounce down the stairs, at first slowly, then faster. It didn’t sound much like footsteps to him, but it would have to do.

  He kept the door open, the slightest crack, and watched as the guard came hurrying up and hesitated, looking down the stairwell. The pool ball was well along by now and going faster. At this distance, it sounded more like a person descending as fast as possible.

  The guard suddenly flicked his hand inside his coat to emerge with a laser pistol, and began hurrying down.

  Paul Kosloff gave him a few moments, then left his hiding place and hustled along the hall. He gently tried the doorknob of the room that was his destination. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and walked through, nonchalantly.

  The man reclining in the bed, reading, looked up at him. “Paul Kosloff?” he said.

  “Well, I’m not the ghost of Spiro Agnew,” Paul Kosloff said, closing the door behind him. “What in the hell is this all about?”

  “How did you get in without detection?”

  “I didn’t completely. You’ve either got a dead dog or one with a whale of a headache out in your garden. Once again, what’s this all about?”

  “A double motive,” the man in the bed said. “First, I wanted to find out whether you’re as good as you’re supposed to be as an espionage-counter-espionage agent. And, second, I wanted to give you an assignment without anyone, anyone at all, even knowing we’ve ever met. Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re the head of what some of us field men call The Commission of Dirty Tricks of the State Department. Few people in this country realize that the Soviet Complex isn’t the only power that has tough and unscrupulous people operating.” Paul Kosloff pulled up a chair and sat and crossed his legs.

  The other looked at him. “Very few people know of me. In my section, we need publicity like a broken leg.”

  Paul Kosloff said evenly, “Yes, I know. I was just a child when the Bay of Pigs took place, but there have been other farces since. Publicity doesn’t help.”

  The man in the bed was obviously not pleased at that. He said, “Kosloff, do you consider yourself a patriotic American?”

  The other said reasonably, “How could I be? When a special bill was brought before Congress to grant me citizenship, it was decided my odor was too high and it was turned down.

  Let’s face reality. I’m persona non grata everywhere, including the country of my birth—Russia—where they took a dim view of my ‘defecting’ even though I was a child in arms at the time and all the rest of my family had been liquidated in the purges. Relatives smuggled me out over the Finnish border and finally got me here to America.”

  The commissioner said, “What I should have said was, ‘Are you basically pro-American or anti-Communist?’ ”

  The international troubleshooter looked at him. “I thought they meant the same thing.”

  The man who worked directly under the president on matters so shielded that not even the most avid of muckraking columnists were aware of them, shook his head. “Not necessarily.”

  Paul Kosloff was getting tired of the routine. He said, “All right. I’ve been ordered to contact you secretly. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stop a revolution.”

  “That’s my specialty. That’s what you people have been having me do for . . . as long as I can remember. Why the build up? Do I have to assassinate some present-day Trotsky or Mao, or what?”

  “The revolution is about to take place in Maghrib.”

  Paul Kosloff stared at him. “They’ve already got a Marxian government there.”

  “That’s what I’ve been building up to. The revolution we’re talking about is against the communist-socialist-anarchist government there. A certain Colonel Abou Inan wishes to overthrow the Marxists.”

  “Why not let him?” Paul Kosloff growled.

  “Because if we do, it’s one more nail in the coffin of our economy.”

  Paul Kosloff waited in silence.

  The other said impatiently, “I assume you haven’t read a book published back in the 1950s by Vance Packard called The Waste Makers. In it he pointed out that although the American population was a small fraction of the world’s, the United States economy was using up some fifty percent of Earth’s resources. He also pointed out that ten years before the United States had been the largest exporter of copper in the world, but was now the largest importer. His book was largely ignored and all efforts were continued to raise the gross national product year after year. One by one we lost self-sufficiency in almost every raw material we needed for our industry.”

  “What’s all this got to do with it?” Kosloff said.

  “We need Maghrib’s oil, her nickel, copper and chromium. We need them badly. We reached accommodation wit
h Moulay Ismail’s Marxist regime and purchase almost everything they produce.”

  “Well, why couldn’t you do the same with this Colonel Abou Inan?”

  “Because that’s the strongest plank in his revolutionary platform. He contends the nondeveloped countries with raw materials, such as Maghrib, are being robbed by the industrialized nations such as the United States, Common Europe and Japan. He wishes to shove prices for raw materials sky high.”

  “Can he do it?”

  “Probably, and, if he does, so will the other nondeveloped countries. Eventually, it could mean collapse of the economies of the developed nations.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  “We want Colonel Inan stopped by fair means or foul.” Paul Kosloff looked at him cynically. “So who are you going to send in to try the fair means?”

  He took the supersonic to London and from there a jet to Gibraltar and from there a ferry plane to Tingis, capital of Maghrib. The faint scars from the plastic surgery he had gone through were all healed. He had spent the time that took poring over material on Maghrib and Moulay Ismail and his government, in the State Department files.

  He hadn’t liked what he found about Moulay Ismail. The North African, although self-labeled a Marxist, evidently had no intention of becoming a part of the Soviet Complex but was going it alone, in the tradition of Tito of Yugoslavia. He hadn’t come to power the easy way. The commies seldom do, as Paul Kosloff well knew, but the Maghrib revolution had been particularly ruthless and bloody.