His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  She produced a small flat box. "A shadow suit. You were to be left here and somebody would come tomorrow."

  "We won't disappoint him," Reuben pulled the web of the shadow suit over his double and turned on the power. In the half-lit room, it was a perfect disappearance; by daylight it would be less perfect. "They'll ask why the body was shot instead of knifed. Tell them you shot me with the gun from under the pillow. Just say I heard the dou-ble come in and you were afraid there might have been a struggle."

  She listlessly asked: "How do you know I won't betray you?"

  "You won't, Selene." His voice bit. "You're broken."

  She nodded vaguely, started to say something, and then went out without saying it.

  Reuben luxuriously stretched in his narrow bed. Later, his beds would be wider and softer, he thought. He drifted into sleep on a half-formed thought that some day he might vote with other generals on the man to wear the five stars—or even wear them himself, Master of Denv.

  He slept healthily through the morning alarm and arrived late at his regular twentieth-level station. He saw his superior, May's man Oscar of the eighty-fifth level, Atomist, ostentatiously take his name. Let him!

  Oscar assembled his crew for a grim announcement: "We are going to even the score, and perhaps a little better, with Ellay. At sunset there will be three flights of missiles from Deck One."

  There was a joyous murmur and Reuben trotted off on his task.

  All forenoon he was occupied with drawing plutonium slugs from hyper-suspicious storekeepers in the great rock-quarried vaults, and seeing them through countless audits and assays all the way to Weap-ons Assembly. Oscar supervised the scores there who assembled the curved slugs and the explosive lenses into sixty-kilogram warheads.

  In mid-afternoon there was an incident. Reuben saw Oscar step aside for a moment to speak to a Maintainer whose guard fell on one of the Assembly Servers, and dragged him away as he pleaded inno-cence. He had been detected in sabotage. When the warheads were in and the Missilers seated, waiting at their boards, the two Atomists rode up to the eighty-third's refectory.

  The news of a near-maximum effort was in the air; it was electric.

  Reuben heard on all sides in tones of self-congratulation: "We'll clobber them tonight!"

  "That Server you caught," he said to Qscar. "What was he up to?"

  His commander stared. "Are you trying to learn my job? Don't try it, I warn you. If my black marks against you aren't enough, I could always arrange for some fissionable material in your custody to go astray."

  "No, no! I was just wondering why people do something like that."

  Oscar sniffed doubtfully. "He's probably insane, like all the Angelos. I've heard the climate does it to them. You're not a Maintainer or a Controller. Why worry about it?"

  "They'll brainburn him, I suppose?"

  "I suppose. Listen!"

  Deck One was firing. One, two, three, four, five, six. One, two, three, four, five, six. One, two, three, four, five, six.

  People turned to one another and shook hands, laughed and slapped shoulders heartily. Eighteen missiles were racing through the stratosphere, soon to tumble on Ellay. With any luck, one or two would slip through the first wall of interceptors and blast close enough to smash windows and topple walls in the crazy city by the ocean. It would serve the lunatics right.

  Five minutes later an exultant voice filled most of Denv.

  "Recon missile report," it said. "Eighteen launched, eighteen per-fect trajectories. Fifteen shot down by Ellay first-line interceptors, three shot down by Ellay second-line interceptors. Extensive blast damage observed in Griffith Park area of Ellay!"

  There were cheers.

  And eight Full Maintainers marched into the refectory silently, and marched out with Reuben.

  He knew better than to struggle or ask futile questions. Any ques-tion you asked of a Maintainer was futile. But he goggled when they marched him onto an upward-bound stairway.

  They rode past the eighty-ninth level and Reuben lost count, see-ing only the marvels of the upper reaches of Denv. He saw carpets that ran the entire length of corridors, and intricate fountains, and mosaic walls, stained-glass windows, more wonders than he could recognize, things for which he had no name.

  He was marched at last into a wood-paneled room with a great polished desk and a map behind it. He saw May, and another man who must have been a general—Rudolph?—but sitting at the desk was a frail old man who wore a circlet of stars on each khaki shoul-der.

  The old man said to Reuben: "You are an Ellay spy and saboteur."

  Reuben looked at May. Did one speak directly to the man who wore the stars, even in reply to such an accusation?

  "Answer him, Reuben," May said kindly.

  "I am May's man Reuben, of the eighty-third level, an Atomist," he said.

  "Explain," said the other general heavily, "if you can, why all eighteen of the warheads you procured today failed to fire."

  "But they did!" gasped Reuben. "The Recon missile report said there was blast damage from the three that got through and it didn't say anything about the others failing to fire."

  The other general suddenly looked sick and May looked even kindlier.

  The man who wore the stars turned inquiringly to the chief of the Maintainers, who nodded and said: "That was the Recon mis-sile report, sir."

  The general snapped: "What I said was that he would attempt to sabotage the attack. Evidently he failed. I also said he is a faulty dou-ble, somehow slipped with great ease into my good friend May's or-ganization. You will find that his left thumb print is a clumsy forgery of the real Reuben's thumb print and that his hair has been artificially darkened."

  The old man nodded at the chief of the Maintainers, who said: "We have his card, sir."

  Reuben abruptly found himself being fingerprinted and deprived of some hair.

  "The f.p.s check, sir," one Maintainer said. "He's Reuben."

  "Hair's natural, sir," said another.

  The general began a rearguard action: "My information about his hair seems to have been inaccurate. But the fingerprint means only that Ellay spies substituted his prints for Reuben's prints in the files—"

  "Enough, sir," said the old man with the stars. "Dismissed. All of you.

  Rudolph, I am surprised. All of you, go."

  Reuben found himself in a vast apartment with May, who was bubbling and chuckling uncontrollably until he popped three of the green capsules into his mouth hurriedly.

  "This means the eclipse for years of my good friend Rudolph," he crowed. "His game was to have your double sabotage the attack war-heads and so make it appear that my organization is rotten with spies. The double must have been under post-hypnotic, primed to admit everything. Rudolph was so sure of himself that he made his accusations before the attack, the fool!"

  He fumbled out the green capsules again.

  "Sir," said Reuben, alarmed.

  "Only temporary," May muttered, and swallowed a fourth. "But you're right. You leave them alone. There are big things to be done in your time, not in mine. I told you I needed a young man who could claw his way to the top. Rudolph's a fool. He doesn't need the capsules because he doesn't ask questions. Funny, I thought a coup like the double affair would hit me hard, but I don't feel a thing. It's not like the old days. I used to plan and plan, and when the trap went snap it was better than this stuff. But now I don't feel a thing."

  He leaned forward from his chair; the pupils of his eyes were black bullets.

  "Do you want to work?" he demanded. "Do you want your world stood on its head and your brains to crack and do the only worth-while job there is to do? Answer me!"

  "Sir, I am a loyal May's man. I want to obey your orders and use my ability to the full."

  "Good enough," said the general. "You've got brains, you've got push. I'll do the spade work. I won't last long enough to push it through. You'll have to follow. Ever been outside of Denv?"

  Reuben stiffened.<
br />
  "I'm not accusing you of being a spy. It's really all right to go out-side of Denv. I've been outside. There isn't much to see at first—a lot of ground pocked and torn up by shorts and overs from Ellay and us. Farther out, especially east, it's different. Grass, trees, flowers. Places where you could grow food.

  "When I went outside, it troubled me. It made me ask questions. I wanted to know how we started. Yes—started. It wasn't always like this.

  Somebody built Denv. Am I getting the idea across to you? It wasn't always like this!

  "Somebody set up the reactors to breed uranium and make plutonium.

  Somebody tooled us up for the missiles. Somebody wired the boards to control them. Somebody started the hydroponics tanks.

  "I've dug through the archives. Maybe I found something. I saw mountains of strength reports, ration reports, supply reports, and yet I never got back to the beginning. I found a piece of paper and maybe I understood it and maybe I didn't. It was about the water of the Colorado River and who should get how much of it. How can you divide water in a river? But it could have been the start of Denv, Ellay, and the missile attacks."

  The general shook his head, puzzled, and went on: "I don't see clearly what's ahead. I want to make peace between Denv and Ellay, but I don't know how to start or what it will be like. I think it must mean not firing, not even making any more weapons. Maybe it means that some of us, or a lot of us, will go out of Denv and live a different kind of life. That's why I've clawed my way up. That's why I need a young man who can claw with the best of them. Tell me what you think."

  "I think," said Reuben measuredly, "it's magnificent—the salvation of Denv. I'll back you to my dying breath if you'll let me."

  May smiled tiredly and leaned back in the chair as Reuben tiptoed out.

  What luck, Reuben thought—what unbelievable luck to be at a ful-crum of history like this!

  He searched the level for Rudolph's apartment and gained admis-sion.

  To the general, he said: "Sir, I have to report that your friend May is insane. He has just been raving to me, advocating the destruc-tion of civilization as we know it, and urging me to follow in his foot-steps. I pretended to agree—since I can be of greater service to you if I'm in May's confidence."

  "So?" said Rudolph thoughtfully. "Tell me about the double. How did that go wrong?"

  "The bunglers were Selene and Almon. Selene because she alarmed me instead of distracting me. Almon because he failed to recognize her incompetence."

  "They shall be brainburned. That leaves an eighty-ninth-level va-cancy in my organization, doesn't it?"

  "You're very kind, sir, but I think I should remain a May's man—

  outwardly. If I earn any rewards, I can wait for them. I presume that May will be elected to wear the five stars. He won't live more than two years after that, at the rate he is taking drugs."

  "We can shorten it," grinned Rudolph. "I have pharmacists who can see that his drugs are more than normal strength."

  "That would be excellent, sir. When he is too enfeebled to discharge his duties, there may be an attempt to rake up the affair of the double to discredit you. I could then testify that I was your man all along and that May coerced me."

  They put their heads together, the two saviors of civilization as they knew it, and conspired ingeniously long into the endless night.

  THE REVERSIBLE REVOLUTIONS

  [as by Cecil Corwin; Cosmic Stories, March 1941]

  J. C. BATTLE, late of the Foreign Legion, Red Army, United States Marines, Invincibles De Bolivia and Coldstream Guards, alias Alexandre de Foma, Christopher Jukes, Burton Macauly and Joseph Hagstrom—

  ne Etzel Bernstein—put up his hands.

  "No tricks," warned the feminine voice. The ample muzzle of the gun in his back shifted slightly, seemingly from one hand to another. Battle felt his pockets being gone through. "Look out for the left hip," he volunteered. "That gat's on a hair-trigger."

  "Thanks," said the feminine voice. He felt the little pencilgun being gingerly removed. "Two Colts," said the voice admiringly, "a police .38, three Mills grenades, pencilgun, brass knuckles, truncheons of lead, leather and rubber, one stiletto, tear-gas gun, shells for same, prussic-acid hypo kit, thuggee's braided cord, sleeve Derringer and a box of stink bombs. Well, you walking armory! Is that all?"

  "Quite," said Battle. "Am I being taken for a ride?" He looked up and down the dark street and saw nothing in the way of accomplices.

  "Nope. I may decide to drop you here. But before you find out, suppose you tell me how you got on my trail?" The gun jabbed viciously into his back. "Talk!" urged the feminine voice nastily.

  "How I got on your trail?" exploded Battle. "Dear lady, I can't see your face, but I assure you that I don't recognize your voice, that I'm not on anybody's trail, that I'm just a soldier of fortune resting up during a slack spell in the trade. And anyway, I don't knock off ladies. We—we have a kind of code."

  "Yeah?" asked the voice skeptically. "Let's see your left wrist." Mutely Battle twitched up the cuff and displayed it. Aside from a couple of scars it was fairly ordinary. "What now?" he asked.

  "I'll let you know," said the voice. Battle's hand was twisted behind his back, and he felt a cold, stinging liquid running over the disputed wrist.

  "What the—?" he began impatiently.

  "Oh!" ejaculated the voice, aghast. "I'm sorry! I thought—" The gun relaxed and Battle turned. He could dimly see the girl in the light of the merc lamp far down the deserted street. She appeared to be blushing.

  "Here I've gone and taken you apart," she complained, "and you're not even from Breen at all! Let me help you." She began picking up Battle's assorted weapons from the sidewalk where she had deposited them. He stowed them away as she handed them over.

  "There," she said. "That must be the last of them."

  "The hypo kit," he reminded her. She was holding it, unconsciously, in her left hand. He hefted the shoulder holster under his coat and grunted. "That's better," he said.

  "You must think I'm an awful silly," said the girl shyly.

  Battle smiled generously as he caught sight of her face. "Not at all," he protested. "I've made the same mistake myself. Only I've not always caught myself in time to realize it." This with a tragic frown and sigh.

  "Really?" she breathed. "You must be awfully important —all these guns and things."

  "Tools of the trade," he said noncommittally. "My card." He handed her a simple pasteboard bearing the crest of the United States Marines and the legend:

  LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE REVOLUTIONS A SPECIALTY

  She stared, almost breathless. "How wonderful!" she said.

  "In every major insurrection for the past thirty years," he assured her complacently.

  "That must make you—let's see—" she mused.

  "Thirty years, did I say?" he quickly interposed. "I meant twenty. In case you were wondering, I'm just thirty-two years old." He tweaked his clipped, military moustache.

  "Then you were in your first at—"

  "Twelve. Twelve and a half, really. Shall we go somewhere for a cup of coffee, Miss—er—ah—?"

  "McSweeney," she said, and added demurely, "but my friends all call me Spike."

  "China? Dear me, yes! I was with the Eighth Route Army during the celebrated long trek from Annam to Szechuan Province. And I shouldn't call it boasting to admit that without me—"

  Miss Spike McSweeney appeared to be hanging on his every word.

  "Have you ever," she asked, "done any technical work?"

  "Engineering? Line of communication? Spike, we fighters leave that to thègreaseballs,' as they are called in most armies. I admit that I fly a combat fighter as well as the next—assuming that he's pretty good—but as far as the engine goes, I let that take care if itself. Why do you ask?"

  "Lieutenant," she said earnestly, "I think I ought to tell you what all this mess is about."

  "Dear lady," he said gallantly, "the soldier d
oes not question his orders."

  "Anyway," said Miss McSweeney, "I need your help. It's a plot—a big one. A kind of revolution. You probably know more about them than I do, but this one seems to be the dirtiest trick that was ever contemplated."

  "How big is it?" asked Battle, lighting a cigarette.

  "Would you mind not smoking?" asked the girl hastily, shrinking away from the flame. "Thanks. How big is it? World-scale. A world revolution.

  Not from the Right, not from the Left, but, as near as I can make out, from Above."

  "How's that?" asked Battle, startled.

  "The leader is what you'd call a scientist-puritan, I guess. His name's Breen—Dr. Malachi Breen, formerly of every important university and lab in the world. And now he's got his own revolution all planned out.

  It's for a world without smoking, drinking, swearing, arguing, dancing, movies, music, rich foods, steam heat—all those things."

  "Crackpot!" commented the lieutenant.

  She stared at him grimly. "You wouldn't think so if you knew him," said Spike. "I'll tell you what I know. I went to work for him as a stenographer. He has a dummy concern with offices in Rockefeller Plaza and a factory in New Jersey. He's supposed to be manufacturing Pot-O-Klutch, a device to hold pots on the stove in case of an earthquake. With that as a front, he goes on with his planning. He's building machines of some kind in his plant—and with his science and his ambition, once he springs his plans, the world will be at his feet!"

  "The field of action," said Battle thoughtfully, "would be New Jersey principally. Now, you want me to break this insurrection?

  "Of course!" agonized the girl. "As soon as I found out what it really was, I hurried to escape. But I knew I was being followed by his creatures!"

  "Exactly," said Battle. "Now, what's in this for me?"

  "I don't understand. You mean—?"

  "Money," said Battle. "The quartermaster's getting shorthanded. Say twenty thousand?"

  The girl only stared. "I haven't any money," she finally gasped. "I thought—"

  "You thought I was a dilettante?" asked Battle. "Dear lady, my terms are fifty percent cash, remainder conditional on the success of the campaign. I'm sorry I can't help you—"