Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  The Lagrangist said, “You wouldn’t have any Reman Riesling, would you? Top Earthside wines are one of the few things we haven’t been able to duplicate in Lagrangia. We’re working on it,” he added quickly.

  “I have some,” Jerry murmured, still in his other thoughts. He filled glasses and returned to his desk, extending his visitor the dry white wine.

  After settling back into his chair and swallowing some of his brandy, he said, “So: the space colonists are attempting to cut ties with Mother Earth.”

  “Some mother,” the other said wryly. “More like a stepmother.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Earth has, from the beginning, only exploited Lagrangia and the Belt Islands. Almost all the profits are funneled back to Earth, rather than being used for continued expansion of the space program. A corporation wants immediate dividends; not, uh, pie in the sky a century from now. We have a different view. We’ve got a different dream.”

  Jerry was becoming increasingly intrigued. “So you’re having trouble with Earth. Such as?”

  The other took another sip of his wine, appreciatively. He looked at the multibillionaire and said, “Almost all funds for the space programs have been cut to ribbons. It’s practically impossible for a top scientist or technician from whatever country to get permission to migrate to the space islands. Even ordinary folk are highly discouraged from leaving for Lagrangia or the Asteroids. Whenever we make a scientific breakthrough in the islands we immediately rush the details Earthside, but of recent years the Earth nations do not reciprocate. They keep their discoveries to themselves.”

  “Why should we do that?”

  Venner shrugged and frowned before answering. “We’re not sure. Maybe we’re going too fast in the islands; the Earthside powers are afraid we’ll upset the boat, come up with changes that will threaten the status quo. We’re contributing to future shock with a vengeance. Sooner or later, almost every Earth institution will be threatened with change as a result of developments in space.”

  “Probably true.” Jerry thought about it before saying, “These new developments of yours. What kind of political system have you dreamed up?”

  “We’re experimenting with a half-dozen alternatives.” The other flashed a grin of deprecation. “None of them very similar to anything now prevailing Earthside.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Jerry said. Then, “Look, with emigration being deliberately discouraged, how are you populating these new islands of the Federation?”

  The other looked him straight in the eye. “Partially from natural increase. We still like kids in the space colonies. But even more so from the original islands.”

  Jerry looked at him quizzically. “Wouldn’t the original islands take a dim view of losing their inhabitants in that manner?”

  Ian Venner wasn’t fazed. “Some of them do, especially in the Belt.”

  “I’d think the Soviet Complex would send the KGB up en masse.”

  “They do. And they defect. For that matter, so do the IABI men, and those from the Common Europe Interpol, while chasing felons who’ve run to Lagrangia. My own—never mind,” he finished, smiling to himself.

  “Jesus,” Jerry muttered. “I’ll have to have my people do me a brief on this. I had no idea…” He scrutinized the Lagrangist again. “How are racial problems in Lagrangia and the Asteroids?”

  “What race problems?”

  Jerry was impatient. “You know: conflict between the races. Blacks, whites, yellows…”

  The man from Lagrangia was just as impatient. “Auburn,” he interrupted, “when you’re out in deep space and something happens to your suit, you don’t give a good goddamn whether the person next to you is black, yellow, or green. Death only comes in one color. In space, all humans cooperate, or they die. We pay no more attention to a person’s race than his religion, if he has any—which he most likely doesn’t.”

  Jerry said, “Come again?”

  Venner was still impatient. “That’s one of the reasons we’re on the shit list. The Prophet has been pulling out all the stops when it comes to space colonization. He found out about twenty years ago that there wasn’t a single church in Lagrange Five and demanded that he be allowed to build a United Church mission in our Island One. Obviously, we couldn’t care less, so he built it and manned it.”

  “But nobody came, eh?” Jerry Auburn was amused.

  “Oh, we all came. Once. In fact, some came back again for the second time… for laughs. Good grief, Auburn, any emigrants to the space colonies are screened to hell and gone, not for just competence in their line of work, but for intelligence, education, Ability Quotient. How many of them do you think can believe in the religious mythologies of the Jews, the Christians, the Moslems, the Buddhists, the Shintoists, or any of the rest? And if we tried to teach the Genesis account, Noah’s Ark and the rest, do you think any of them would swallow it? Sorry.”

  Jerry got up and went over to the bar to refresh their drinks. He returned with them and said, “I begin to see why you people are getting uptight. So you’ve been rather quietly acquiring all private investments in space that you can get your hands on, as fast as you can finance it. But why approach me directly? Why not resort to various stock exchanges and buy up a controlling interest in Auburn Space Development, Incorporated?”

  Ian Venner said, “It’s a question we debated. However, your grandfather was one of the first to invest in Lagrange Five, and he did it with no strings attached. He didn’t make quick initial profits and keep them Earthside. For two decades, he reinvested all income from space back into the projects. When he died, your father continued the policy. And he didn’t use Earthworm directors. He was the first to have sense enough to appoint experienced Lagrangists, usually second-generation colonists. Nor have we had any interference from you since you have inherited the Auburn interests. So we decided, in all fairness, that we should consult you without the bullshit.”

  “You did it, that’s a fact,” Jerry Auburn said. He thought about it for long moments during which time the other held his peace. He sipped at his brandy until the glass was empty, then put it down and turned to one of the screens on his desk. He flicked it on, and when a face faded in, said, “Barry, make arrangements to sell all our interests in Auburn Space Development to the Space Federation. I have a gentleman here in my office named Ian Venner, from Lagrangia. Go over the details with him. You’ll have to relay this to Central and to Sillitoe in London and Flaker in Berlin. But first, buy what common shares you can and add them to our holdings you turn over.”

  Barry Wimple gaped, but Jerry flicked the switch again and turned back to the equally gaping Lagrangist.

  Venner said, “But look. We make a policy of paying cash, when we’ve accumulated enough credits to swing our latest acquisition. This was to be the largest thus far. We don’t want to be saddled with paying interest for…”

  “No interest,” Jerry said flatly. “I’m turning my space properties over to your Federation.” He stood and extended a hand. “Perhaps, someday, you’ll be able to do a favor for me. Meanwhile, you can use those credits you’ve accumulated the hard way to buy up some other properties. The move is on, Venner, to create a world government. If such elements as the United Church are in control of that world state, you people are going to be in the soup. You’d better make yourselves as independent as possible, as soon as possible.”

  The Lagrangist, still in something of a daze, shook hands. He said hesitantly, which was out of character for him, “I don’t know what motivates you, Auburn, but I assume that you’ve thought this out. And I can assure you that the Federation is most anxious to grant that favor.”

  Jerry smiled suddenly. “No racism in space, eh?”

  The other was mystified. “That’s right. There hasn’t been from the beginning.”

  When Ian Venner was gone, Jerry went back to his living room, got a double brandy from the bar, and spread himself out on a couch. He remained there for a couple of hours, s
taring unseeingly out the huge window which overlooked Manhattan. From time to time he got up to replenish the glass.

  At one time he said aloud, “What in hell am I doing in this position?”

  And ten minutes later he answered himself. “I was born into it.”

  It had grown dark outside by the time the identity screen buzzed on the door leading to the offices. He sat erect and looked over. It was Lester.

  Jerry said, “Yeah?” a slight slur in his voice.

  “Mr. Luca Cellini is here, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  The door opened and an alert-looking stranger entered. In his late thirties, he could have been one of Jerry’s staff, so far as appearance was concerned. He was dark of complexion in the Sicilian tradition, clean and handsome of features, sharp of eye. He took the room in completely in one quick sweep, then turned to its occupant.

  Jerry got up and went over to the bar for still another drink, saying over his shoulder, “Sit down, Cellini. You’re the Graf’s local man?”

  The newcomer seated himself in a comfort chair and crossed his legs, adjusting his beautifully tailored trousers.

  He said, “That’s right, Mr. Auburn, and for both hemispheres of the Americas. What can I do for you?”

  Jerry came back, reseated himself on the couch, and viewed the other. He said finally, “What would you take to sell out the Graf?”

  Luca Cellini stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, “First of all, nine lives, like a cat.”

  Jerry said nothing, took a sip of his drink.

  Cellini leaned forward a bit. “Mr. Auburn,” he said “I don’t want to antagonize you. I know who you are, and I know how much weight you can throw. Even the Graf wouldn’t want to antagonize you. However, I’ve been working for Lothar Von Brandenburg for over twenty years. One of his scouts brought me off the streets when I was a kid. I’ve been with him ever since. He even sent me to school. Now I’m settled in the organization. The pay’s good, more than I could ever have expected with my background. In short, Mr. Auburn, I owe the Graf. He’s been more than a father to me.”

  Jerry took another pull at the drink, without removing his eyes from the other. He said slowly, “The Graf’s a has-been. Mercenaries are rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and so is selling arms to would-be revolutionists. Already Latin America, once a lucrative field of operation for you, is now part of the United States and sealed off from your operations. And that’s just the beginning. World government is on the way. When it comes, there will be little use, anywhere, for mercenaries and illicit arms sales. Hit men for the Deathwish policies will be gone, since such policies will be illegal with a World State. There’ll be a great fall-off in bodyguarding and assassinations, since most of them are international and there won’t be any nations. The Graf is hedging his bets, trying to get into the upper hierarchy of the World Club so he’ll have a place in the new scheme of things. You rank-and-file employees will largely be dropped. So, looking out for your own interests, you’d better get out while you can.”

  Luca Cellini had not worked his way up to his present standing in the Graf’s organization by being slow.

  He said, “Mind if I smoke?”

  Jerry shook his head.

  The New Yorker took out a gold cigar case and from it drew a panatela. The end had already been pierced. He brought forth a gold lighter and lit the long cigar carefully. He said, “I couldn’t sell out the Graf. He’d get me no matter where I tried to hide. Just as easily as he gets those Deathwish policy suckers. Few of them last a week.”

  Jerry nodded, taking back more of the drink that he didn’t need. His eyes were already shining in the characteristic way they did after a half-liter of spirits.

  He said, “Try this. We’d arrange a shootout in which you were involved. You’d supposedly take a couple of hits and the ambulance would haul you off to a clinic owned by a doctor on my payroll. He’d operate on you, making a few impressive-looking scars and possibly taking a half inch or so out of one of your shin bones, so you’d be left with a noticeable limp. When you were released from the clinic, the doctor’s report would read that you were ninety percent disabled, possibly one of your kidneys shot away, or something. My people know how to do it. You’d report to the Graf or Peter Windsor or whoever you report to, that you have to retire. So you go to some island paradise like Samoa, and settle down living the good life in retirement on whatever pension the Graf settles on you, and especially the sum I give you. You stay there at least until Mercenaries, Incorporated is gone from the scene—possibly Lothar von Brandenburg as well. Possibly you spend the rest of your life where you’re not apt to run into any of your present associates. So, the question is still, what would you want to sell out the Graf?”

  Luca Cellini was staring again and breathing deeper now. He said, “Could I have a drink?”

  His host motioned with his head toward the bar. Cellini went over to it and poured himself a triple from the same bottle his host had used, He swallowed part of it and returned to his chair.

  He said, “One million pseudodollars, tax-free and untraceable.”

  Jerry nodded in agreement. “Very well. As you leave, Lester will make arrangements with you to deposit that amount to whatever account you prefer. I assume that you have at least one secret account in Nassau, Tangier, or wherever.”

  Cellini nodded. “I know you don’t welch, Mr. Auburn. I trust you. What did you want from me?”

  “What happened to Harold Dunninger?”

  “He was kidnapped by the Nihilists. When his wife wouldn’t pony up the ransom, they hit him.”

  “I know what was in the news. How did you set it up?”

  The other moistened his lips. “I was supplying his bodyguards. There were twelve of them, four on a shift. I pulled four of them off at the crucial time, supposedly rotating them. The orders came from Windsor. The Nihilist who pulled off the kidnapping was one of ours. We’ve had him planted with them for years. He placed the ransom amount so high that there wasn’t a chance Dunninger’s wife would pay it. We’d checked her out to make sure.”

  “What’s the name of your mole in the Nihilists?”

  “Nils Ostrander.”

  “New subject: What happened to Pamela McGivern?”

  Cellini shook his head. “Never heard of her.”

  Jerry thought about it for a moment, then accepted that and said, “What else has been going on under your jurisdiction?”

  “We’ve diverted all our best men to hitting the Deathwish Wobbly.”

  “Who?” Jerry scowled.

  “Roy Cos, a screwball radical who took out a Deathwish Policy. Instead of blowing the credits coming to him like all the rest, he’s devoted it to buying prime time so he can sound off against the system. He’s surrounded himself with a flock of guards, all devoted to him, and we haven’t been able to get through. He’s scheduled to show in a couple of days. All the screwball outfits are getting together in Chicago for what they call a synthesis meeting. He’s supposed to represent the Wobblies.”

  “I guess I have heard about him,” Jerry said, his voice deeper in its slur now, his eyes brighter. He was obviously at least half drenched in booze. “What else?”

  “Nothing much. They sent over a new man from the Wolfschloss.” Cellini looked up. “That’s the…”

  “I know,” Jerry said. “The Graf’s fortress in Liechtenstein. Go on.”

  “Kid named Franklin Pinell,” Cellini growled. “It’s not the way the organization usually operates. Windsor said to cooperate with him one hundred percent. Handle him with kid gloves. Graf’s orders.”

  Jerry eyed him. “What’s he supposed to do?”

  “Hit a spade named Horace Hampton, evidently. Never heard of Hampton.”

  Jerry Auburn’s face froze. All of a sudden, he didn’t seem quite so influenced by the drink he’d been putting down. “Why?” he got out.

  “Damned if I know. There’s a contract on him. Why we couldn’t have h
andled it is a mystery to me. Routine stuff.”

  After a moment, Jerry said, “Anything else?”

  “Can’t think of anything.”

  “Wizard. Go out to Lester. He’ll cover you with all that we’ve agreed on.”

  The executive came to his feet, looked at the man who had just bought him, then, without further words, turned and headed for the door.

  Jerry finished his drink, went over to the living room’s small desk, and sat down before the screen there. He flicked it on and said, “Ted Meer.”

  When the face of his aide appeared, he said, “Check as deeply as you can on these men. First, a Franklin Pinell. All I know about him is that he’s young, has recently been in Europe, including Liechtenstein, and is connected with Mercenaries, Incorporated, evidently on a high level. Second, Roy Cos, the so-called Deathwish Wobbly. Third, a Nils Ostrander of the Nihilists, evidently one of their more militant members; possibly connected with some of their more flagrant operations. And, oh yes, who are we currently using for our private investigations in Common Europe?”

  His aide said, “We’re still using Pinkerton International, Mr. Auburn.”

  “Very well. Get them to put all-out effort into checking a Pamela McGivern, an Irish girl, recently employed as a secretary by the World Club, at their headquarters in the Palazzo Colonna in Rome. She disappeared about a week or so ago. This is crash priority, Meer. I want results immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jerry Auburn flicked the screen off, sighed, and went back to the bar.

  In the morning, he had a raging hangover. He went into the bathroom and got a bottle of Sober-Ups from the medicine cabinet, shuddered, and took one. Still in pajamas, he went into the living room and stretched out on the couch, after touching a button set into its armrest.

  Simmons entered, immaculately correct. He took one look at his employer and said sadly, “Yes, sir.”

  “Wipe that goddamned superior, long-suffering look off your face and bring me about a gallon of Italian Expresso.”

  “Yes, sir.” The butler left.