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

Description
Dallas McCord βMackβ Reynolds was an American science fiction writer who authored almost two hundred short stories and novellas, was a staple in all the major science fiction and fantasy magazines and published dozens of science fiction novels. He began his writing career in the late 1940s. His fiction focused on exploring and challenging both the socioeconomic themes of the day and the implications of the Cold War that raged throughout his career. A thoughtful writer of speculative fiction, many of Mack Reynoldsβ predictions have come to pass, including the credit-card economy, remote warfare and a worldwide computer network. His thoughts about the outcomes of both the Soviet and western political and economic systems are still highly relevant.
This collection gathers stories that were published in Analog, Astounding Science Fiction, Amazing Stories and others. Ordered by date of first publication, they range from spy adventures to the ultimate expression of corporate warfare and from a very short 1000-word story to full-blown novellas.
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- Author: Mack Reynolds
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The applejack had worked enough on Joe for him to rise against one of his pet peeves. He said, βThat term, the old time way, is strictly Telly talk, Max. We donβt do things the old time way. No nation in history ever hasβ βwith the possible exception of Egypt. Socio-economics are in a continual flux and here in this country we no more do things in the way they did fifty years ago, than fifty years ago they did them the way the American Revolutionists outlined back in the Eighteenth Century.β
Max was staring at him. βI donβt get that, sir.β
Joe said impatiently, βMax, the politico-economic system we have today is an outgrowth of what went earlier. The welfare state, the freezing of the status quo, the Frigid Fracas between the West-world and the Sov-world, industrial automation until useful employment is all but needlessβ βall these things were to be found in embryo more than fifty years ago.β
βWell, maybe the captainβs right, but you gotta admit, sir, that mostly we do things the old way. We still got the Constitution and the two-party system andβ ββ
Joe was wearying of the conversation now. You seldom ran into anyone, even in Middle caste, the traditionally professional class, interested enough in such subjects to be worth arguing with. He said, βThe Constitution, Max, has got to the point of the Bible. Interpret it the way you wish, and you can find anything. If not, you can always make a new amendment. So far as the two-party system is concerned, what effect does it have when there are no differences between the two parties? That phase of pseudo-democracy was beginning as far back as the 1930s when they began passing State laws hindering the emerging of new political parties. By the time they were insured against a third party working its way through the maze of election laws, the two parties had become so similar that elections became almost as big a farce as over in the Sov-world.β
βA farce?β Max ejaculated indignantly, forgetting his servant status. βThat means not so good, doesnβt it? Far as Iβm concerned, election day is tops. The one day a Lower is just as good as an Upper. The one day how many shares you got makes no difference. Everybody has everything.β
βSure, sure, sure,β Joe sighed. βThe modern equivalent of the Roman Bacchanalia. Election day in the West-world when no one, for just that one day, is freer than anyone else.β
βWell, whatβs wrong with that?β The other was all but belligerent. βThatβs the trouble with you Middles and Uppers, you donβt know how it is to be a Lower andβ ββ
Joe snapped suddenly, βI was born a Mid-Lower myself, Max. Donβt give me that nonsense.β
Max gaped at him, utterly unbelieving.
Joeβs irritation fell away. He held out his glass. βGet us a couple of more drinks, Max, and Iβll tell you a story.β
By the time the fresh drink came, Joe Mauser was sorry heβd made the offer. He thought back. He hadnβt told anyone the Joe Mauser story in many a year. And, as he recalled, the last time had been when he was well into his cups, on an election day at that, and his listener had been a Low-Upper, a hereditary aristocrat, one of the one percent of the upper strata of the nation. Zen! How the man had laughed. Heβd roared his amusement till the tears ran.
However, Joe said, βMax, I was born in the same caste you wereβ βaverage father, mother, sisters and brothers. They subsisted on the basic income guaranteed from birth, sat and watched Telly for an unbelievable number of hours each day, took trank to keep themselves happy. And thought I was crazy because I didnβt. Dad was the sort of man whoβd take his belt off to a child of his who questioned such school taught slogans as What was good enough for Daddy is good enough for me.
βThey were all fracas fans, of course. As far back as I can remember the picture is there of them gathered around the Telly, screaming excitement.β Joe Mauser sneered, uncharacteristically.
βYou donβt sound much like youβre in favor of your trade, captain,β Max said.
Joe came to his feet, putting down his still half-full glass. βIβll make this epic story short, Max. As you said, the two actually valid methods of rising above the level in which you were born are in the Military and Religious Categories. Like you, even I couldnβt stomach the latter.β
Joe Mauser hesitated, then finished it off. βMax, there have been few societies that man has evolved that didnβt allow in some manner for the competent or sly, the intelligent or the opportunist, the brave or the strong, to work his way to the top. I donβt know which of these I personally fit into, but I rebel against remaining in the lower categories of a stratified society. Do I make myself clear?β
βWell, no sir, not exactly.β
Joe said flatly, βIβm going to fight my way to the top, and nothing is going to stand in the way. Is that clearer?β
βYessir,β Max said, taken aback.
IVAfter routine morning duties, Joe Mauser returned to his billet and mystified Max Mainz by not only changing into mufti himself but having Max do the same.
In fact, the new batman protested faintly. He hadnβt nearly, as yet, got over the glory of wearing his kilts and was looking forward to parading around town in them. He had a point, of course. The appointed time for the fracas was getting closer and buffs were beginning to stream into town to bask in the atmosphere of threatened death. Everybody knew what a military center, on the outskirts of a fracas reservation such as the Catskills, was like immediately preceding a clash between rival corporations. The high-strung gaiety, the drinking, the overtranking, the relaxation of mores. Even a Rank Private had it made. Admiring civilians
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