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

He spent the first day in what Marx called in Das Kapital the “original accumulation of capital,” although it would seem unlikely that even in the wildest accusations of the most confirmed Marxist, no great fortune was ever before begun in such wise.

It was not necessary, he found, to walk into a large bank and simply seemingly levitate the money out the front door. In fact, that would have meant disaster. However, large sums of money are to be found elsewhere on Manhattan and for eleven hours Crowley used his native ingenuity and American know-how, most of which had been gleaned from watching TV crime shows. By the end of the day he had managed to accumulate in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars and was reasonably sure that the news would not get back to his sponsors. The fact was, he had cleaned out the treasuries of several numbers rackets and those of two bookies.

It was important, he well realized, that he be well under way before the three eggheads decided to lower the boom.

The second day he spent making his preliminary contacts, an operation that was helped by his activities of the day before. He was beginning already to get the feel of the underworld element with which he had decided he was going to have to work, at least in the early stages of his operations.

Any leader, be he military, political or financial, knows that true greatness lies in the ability to choose assistants. Be you a Napoleon with his marshals, a Roosevelt with his brain trust, a J. P. Morgan with his partners, the truism applies. No great leader has ever stood alone.

But Crowley also knew instinctively that he was going to have to keep the number of his immediate associates small. They were going to have to know his secret, and no man is so naive as not to realize that while one person can keep a secret, it becomes twice as hard for two and from that point on the likelihood fades in a geometric progression.

On the fifth day he knocked on the door of the suite occupied by Dr. Braun and his younger associates and pushed his way in without waiting for response.

The three were sitting around awaiting his appearance and to issue him his usual day’s supply of serum. They greeted him variously, Patricia with her usual brisk, almost condescending smile; Dr. Braun with a gentle nod and a speaking of his first name; Ross Wooley sourly. Ross obviously had some misgivings, the exact nature of which he couldn’t quite put his finger upon.

Crowley grinned and said, “Hello, everybody.”

“Sit down, Don,” Braun said gently. “We have been discussing your experiment.”

While the newcomer was finding his seat, Patricia said testily, “Actually, we are not quite happy about your reports, Don. We feel an⁠ ⁠… if you’ll pardon us⁠ ⁠… an evasive quality about them. As though you aren’t completely frank.”

“In short,” Ross snapped, “have you been pulling things you haven’t told us about?”

Crowley grinned at them. “Now you folks are downright suspicious.”

Dr. Braun indicated some notes on the coffee table before him. “It seems hardly possible that your activities would be confined largely to going to the cinema, to the swankier night clubs and eating in the more famed restaurants.”

Crowley’s grin turned into a half embarrassed smirk. Patricia thought of a small boy who had been caught in a mischief but was still somewhat proud of himself. He said, “Well, I gotta admit that there’s been a few things. Come on over to my place and I’ll show you.” He looked at Braun. “Hey, Doc, about how much is one of them Rembrandt paintings worth?”

Braun rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, “Great Caesar,” he murmured. He came to his feet and looked around at the rest of them. “Let us go over there and learn the worst,” he said.

At the curb, before the hotel, Ross Wooley looked up and down the street for a cab.

Crowley said, his voice registering self-deprecation, “Over here.”

Over here was a several toned, fantastically huge hover-limousine, a nattily dressed, sharp-looking, expressionless-faced young man behind the wheel.

The three looked at Crowley.

He opened the door. “Climb in folks. Nothing too good for you scientists, eh?”

Inside, sitting next to a window with Patricia beside him and Dr. Braun at the far window, and with Ross in a jump seat, Crowley said expansively, “This is Larry. Larry, this is Doc Braun and his friends I was telling you about, Ross Wooley and Pat O’Gara. They’re like scientists.”

Larry said, “Hi,” without inflection, and tooled the heavy car out into the traffic.

Ross spun on Crowley. “Don, where’d you get this car?”

Crowley laughed. “You’ll see. Take it easy. You’ll see a lot of things.”

They were too caught up in their own thoughts and in the barrage of demands they were leveling at Crowley to notice direction. It wasn’t until they were already on the George Washington Bridge that Patricia blurted, “Don, this isn’t the way to your hotel!”

Crowley said tolerantly, “Take it easy, Pat. We’re taking a short detour. Something I have to show you in Jersey.”

“I don’t like this,” Ross snapped. The redhead shifted his heavy shoulders in a reflexive protest against the confining tweed coat he wore.

“Relax,” Crowley told him reasonably. “I’ve been thinking things out quite a bit and I’ve got a lot to discuss with you folks.”

They were across the bridge now and Larry headed into the maze which finally unraveled itself to the point that it was obvious they were heading north. Larry hit the lift lever and they rose ten feet from the surface.

Dr. Braun said evenly, “You had no intention of taking us to your room. You used that as a ruse to get us out of our hotel and, further, across the bridge until we are now in a position where it’s quite impossible for us to summon police assistance.”

Crowley grinned. “That’s right, Doc. Didn’t I tell you these three were real eggheads, Larry? Look