Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

gentlemen that although we’re supposedly a three-way partnership, actually, everything’s in my name. You thought you had me under your thumb so securely that it was safe⁠—and you probably didn’t trust each other. Well, I’m blowing the whistle.”

Surprisingly fast for such a fat man, Lawrence Demming’s hand flitted into a desk drawer to emerge with a twin of the scrambler tucked in Don’s belt.

Don Mathers grinned at him, even as he pushed his jacket back to reveal the butt of his own weapon. He made no attempt to draw it, however.

He said softly, “Shoot me, Demming, and you’ve killed the most popular man in the Solar System. You’d never escape the gas chamber, no matter how much money you have. On the other hand, if I shoot you⁠ ⁠…”

He put a hand into his pocket and it emerged with a small, inordinately ordinary bit of ribbon and metal. He displayed it on his palm.

The fat man’s face whitened at the ramifications and his hand relaxed to let the gun drop to the desk. “Listen, Don,” he broke out. “We’ve been unrealistic with you. We’ll reverse ourselves and split, honestly⁠—split three ways.”

Don Mathers laughed at him. “Trying to bribe me with money, Demming? Why don’t you realize, that I’m the only man in existence who has no need for money, who can’t spend money? That my fellow men⁠—whom I’ve done such a good job of betraying⁠—have honored me to a point where money is meaningless?”

Rostoff snatched up the fallen gun, snarling, “I’m calling your bluff, you gutless rummy.”

Don Mathers said, “Okay, Rostoff. There’s just two other things I want to say first. One⁠—I don’t care if I die or not. Two⁠—you’re only twenty feet or so away, but you know what? I think you’re probably a lousy shot. I don’t think you’ve had much practice. I think I can get my scrambler out and cut you down before you can finish me.” He grinned thinly, “Wanta try?”

Max Rostoff snarled a curse and his finger whitened on the trigger.

Don Mathers fell sideward, his hand streaking for his weapon. Without thought there came back to him the long hours of training in hand weapons, in judo, in hand-to-hand combat. He went into action with cool confidence.

At the spaceport he took a cab to the Presidential Palace. It was an auto-cab, of course, and at the Palace gates he found he had no money on him. He snorted wearily. It was the first time in almost a year that he’d had to pay for anything.

Four sentries were standing at attention. He said, “Do one of you boys have some coins to feed into this slot? I’m fresh out.”

A sergeant grinned, approached, and did the necessary.

Don Mathers said wearily, “I don’t know how you go about this. I don’t have an appointment, but I want to see the President.”

“We can turn you over to one of the assistant secretaries, Captain Mathers,” the sergeant said. “We can’t go any further than that. While we’re waiting, what’s the chances of getting your autograph, sir? I gotta kid⁠ ⁠…”

It wasn’t nearly as complicated as he’d thought it was going to be. In half an hour he was seated in the office where he’d received his decoration only⁠—how long ago was it, really less than a year?

He told the story briefly, making no effort to spare himself. At the end he stood up long enough to put a paper in front of the other, then sat down again.

“I’m turning the whole corporation over to the government.⁠ ⁠…”

The President said, “Wait a minute. My administration does not advocate State ownership of industry.”

“I know. When the State controls industry you only put the whole mess off one step, the question then becomes, who controls the State? However, I’m not arguing political economy with you, sir. You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, I’m turning it over to the government to untangle, even while making use of the inventories of radioactives. There’s going to be a lot of untangling to do. Reimbursing the prospectors and small operators who were blackjacked out of their holdings by our super-corporation. Reimbursing of the miners and other laborers who were talked into accepting low pay in the name of patriotism.” Don Mathers cut it short. “Oh, it’s quite a mess.”

“Yes,” the President said. “And you say Max Rostoff is dead?”

“That’s right. And Demming off his rocker. I think he always was a little unbalanced and the prospect of losing all that money, the greatest fortune ever conceived of, tipped the scales.”

The President said, “And what about you, Donal Mathers?”

Don took a deep breath. “I wish I was back in the Space Services, frankly. Back where I was when all this started. However, I suppose that after my court martial, there won’t be⁠ ⁠…”

The President interrupted gently. “You seem to forget, Captain Mathers. You carry the Galactic Medal of Honor, the bearer of which can do no wrong.”

Don Mathers gaped at him.

The President smiled at him, albeit a bit sourly. “It would hardly do for human morale to find out our supreme symbol of heroism was a phoney, Captain. There will be no trial, and you will retain your decoration.”

“But I don’t want it!”

“I’m afraid that is the cross you’ll have to bear the rest of your life, Captain Mathers. I don’t suppose it will be an easy one.”

His eyes went to a far corner of the room, but unseeingly. He said after a long moment, “However, I am not so very sure about your not deserving your award, Captain.”

I’m a Stranger Here Myself

The Place de France is the town’s hub. It marks the end of Boulevard Pasteur, the main drag of the westernized part of the city, and the beginning of Rue de la Liberté, which leads down to the Grand Socco and the medina. In a three-minute walk from the Place de France you can go from an ultramodern, California-like resort to the Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.

It’s quite a town, Tangier.

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