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

based on advertising, is gigantic. Our magazines and newspapers, employing hundreds of thousands of employees from editors right on down to newsstand operators, are able to exist only through advertising revenue. Above all, millions of our population are employed in the service industries, and in distribution, in the stock market, in the commodity markets, in all the other branches of distribution which you Freer Enterprises people want to pull down. A third of our working force is now unemployed, but given your way, it would be at least two thirds.”

Flowers, suddenly suspicious, said, “What has all this to do with the Department of Internal Revenue, Mr. Tracy?”

Tracy came to his feet and smiled ruefully, albeit a bit grimly. “Nothing,” he admitted. “I have nothing at all to do with that department. Here is my real card, Mr. Flowers.”

The Freer Enterprises man must have felt a twinge of premonition even as he took it up, but the effect was still enough to startle him. “Bureau of Economic Subversion!” he said.

“Now then,” Tracy snapped. “I want the names of your higher ups, and the address of your central office, Flowers. Frankly, you’re in the soup. As you possibly know, our hush-hush department has unlimited emergency powers, being answerable only to the President.”

“I⁠ ⁠… I’ve never even heard of it.” Flowers stuttered. “But⁠—”

Tracy held up a contemptuous hand. “Many people haven’t,” he said curtly.

Frank Tracy hurried through the outer office into LaVerne Sandell’s domain, and bit out to her, “Tell the Chief I’m here. Crisis. And immediately get my team together, all eight of them. Heavy equipment. Have a jet readied. Chicago. The team will rendezvous at the airport.”

LaVerne was just as crisp. “Yes, sir.” She began doing things with buttons and switches.

Tracy hurried into the Chief’s office and didn’t bother with the usual amenities. He snapped, “Worse than I thought, sir. This outfit is possibly openly subversive. Deliberately undermining the economy.”

His superior put down the report he was perusing and shifted his bulk backward. “You’re sure? We seldom run into such extremes.”

“I know, I know, but this could be it. Possibly a deliberate program. I’ve taken the initiative to have Miss Sandell summon my team.”

“Now, see here, Frank⁠—” The bureau head looked at him anxiously.

Tracy said, impatience there, “Chief, you’re going to have to let your field men use their discretion. I tell you, this thing is a potential snowball. I’ll play it cool. Arrange things so that there’ll be no scandal for the telly-reporters. But we’ve got to chill this one quickly, or it’ll be on a coast to coast basis before the year is out. They’re even talking about going into automobiles.”

The Chief winced, then said unhappily, “All right, Tracy. However, mind what I said. Curb those roughnecks of yours.”

It proved considerably easier than Frank Tracy had hoped for. Adam Moncure’s national headquarters turned out to be in a sparsely settled area not far from Woodstock, Illinois. The house, in the passé ranch style, must have once been a millionaire’s baby, what with an artificial fishing lake in the back, a kidney shaped swimming pool, extensive gardens and an imposing approach up a corridor of trees.

“Right up to the front door,” Tracy growled to the operative driving the first hover-car of their two-vehicle expedition. “The quicker we move, the better.” He turned his head to the men in the rear seat. “We five will go in together. I don’t expect trouble, they’ll have had no advance warning. I made sure of that. Jerry has equipment in his car to blanket any radio sending. We’ll take care of phones in the house. No rough stuff, we want to talk to these people.”

One of the men growled, “Suppose they start shooting?”

Tracy snorted. “Then shoot back, of course. But just don’t you start it. I shouldn’t have to tell you these things.”

“Got it,” one of the others said. He shifted his shoulders to loosen the .38 Recoilless in its holster.

At the ornate doorway, the cars, which had been moving fast, a foot or so off the ground, came to a quick halt, settled, and the men disgorged, guns in hand.

Tracy called to the occupants of the other vehicle, “On the double. Surround the house. Don’t let anybody leave. Come on, boys.”

They scurried down the flagstone walk, banged on the door. It was opened by a houseman who stared at them uncomprehendingly.

“The occupants of this establishment are under arrest,” Tracy snapped. He flashed a gold badge. “Take me to Adam Moncure.” He turned to his men and gestured with his head. “Take over, boys. Jerry, you come with me.”

The houseman was terrified, but not to the point of being unable to lead them to a gigantic former living room, now converted to offices.

There was an older man, and four assistants. All in shirt sleeves in concession to the midwestern summer, none armed from all Tracy could see. They looked up in surprise, rather than dismay. The older man snapped, “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

Jerry chuckled sourly.

Frank Tracy said, “You’re all under arrest. Jerry, herd these clerks, or whatever they are, into some other room. Get any other occupants of the house together, too. And watch them carefully, confound it. Don’t underestimate these people. And make a search for secret rooms, cellars, that sort of thing.”

“Right,” Jerry growled.

The older of the five Freer Enterprises men was on his feet now. He was a thin, angry faced type, gray of hair and somewhere in his sixties. “I want to know the meaning of this!” he roared.

“Adam Moncure?” Tracy said crisply.

“That is correct. And to what do I owe this cavalier intrusion into my home and place of business?”

Jerry, at pistol point, was herding the four assistants from the room, taking the houseman along with them.

Tracy looked at Moncure, speculatively, then dipped into his pockets for pipe and tobacco. He gestured to a chair with his head. “Sit down, Mr. Moncure. The jig is up.”

“The jig?” the other blurted in a fine rage. “I insist⁠—”

“OK, OK, you’ll get your