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

Holland said, “I’m not an Upper. I’m a Mid-Middle. What’re you Frank?”

“Darned if I know,” Hodgson said. “I forget. I think I was bounced up to Upper-Middle about ten years ago, for some reason or other, but I was busy at the time and didn’t pay much attention. Every once in a while one of the Uppers I work with gets all excited about it and wants to jump me to Upper, but somehow or other we’ve never got around to it. What difference does it make?”

Joe Mauser was not the type to let his mouth fall agape, but he stared at the other, unbelievingly.

“What’s the matter?” Hodgson said.

“Nothing,” Joe said.

Philip Holland said briskly, “Let’s get on with it. Nadine”⁠—his voice had a dry quality⁠—“is one of our most efficient talent scouts. It was no mistake I met you at her home, a few weeks back, Joe. She thought you were potentially one of us. I admit to having formed the same opinion, upon our brief meeting. I now put the question to you direct. Do you wish to join our organization, the purpose of which is admittedly, to change our present socioeconomic system and, as Nadine put it, get back on the road to progress?”

“Yes,” Joe said. “I do.”

“Very well, welcome aboard, as Frank said. Your first assignment will take you to Budapest.”

They were throwing these curves too fast for Joe. Noted among his senior officers as a quick man, thinking on his feet, he still wasn’t up to this sort of thing. “Budapest!” he ejaculated. “The capital of the Sov-world? But⁠ ⁠… but why⁠—?”

Philip Holland looked at him patiently. “There are many ramifications to revolution, Joe. Particularly in this present day with its Frigid Fracas which has gone on for generations between the West-world and the Sov-world and with the Neut-world standing at the sidelines glaring at us both. You see, really efficient revolutions may simply not look like revolutions at all⁠—just unusual results of historic accidents. And if we’re going to make this one peacefully, we’ve got to take every measure to assure efficiency. One of these measures involves a thorough knowledge of where the Sov-world stands, and what it might do if there were any signs of a changing in the status quo here in the West-world.”

Frank Hodgson said idly, “I believe you have met Colonel Lajos Arpád.”

Joe said, puzzled still again, “Why, yes. One of their military attachés. An observer of our fracases to see whether or not the Universal Disarmament Pact is violated.”

“But also, Colonel Arpád is probably the most competent espionage agent working out of Budapest.”

“That corseted, giggling nincompoop!”

Frank Hodgson laughed softly. “If even an old pro like yourself hasn’t spotted him, then we have one more indication of Arpád’s abilities.”

Philip Holland took up the ball again. “The presence of Colonel Arpád in Greater Washington is no coincidence. He is here for something, we’re not sure what. However, rumors have been coming out of the Sov-world, and particularly Siberia, and the more backward countries to the south, such as Sinkiang. Rumors of an underground organized to overthrow the Sovs.”

“And that religious thing,” Nadine added.

Frank Hodgson murmured, “Yes, indeed. We received two more reports of it today.”

All looked at him. He said to Joe, “Some fanatic in Siberia. A Tuvinian, one of the Turkic-speaking peoples in that area once called Tannu-Tuva, and now the Tuvinian Autonomous Oblast. He’s attracting quite a following. Destroy the machines. Go back to the old way. Till the soil by hand. Let the women spin and weave, make clothing on the hand loom once more. Ride horses, rather than hovercraft and jets. That sort of thing. And, oh yes, kill those who stand in the way of this holy mission.”

“And you mean this is catching hold in this day and age?” Joe said.

“Like wildfire,” Hodges said easily. “And I wouldn’t be too very surprised if it would do the same over here. Pressures are generating, in this world of ours. We’ll either make changes peaceably or Zen knows what will happen. The Sovs haven’t been exposed to religion for several generations, Joe. Probably the Party heads had forgotten it as a potential danger. Here in the West-world we do better. The Temple provides us with a pressure valve in that particular area, but I still wouldn’t like to see our trank and Telly bemused morons subjected to a sudden blast of revival-type religion.”

Joe looked back at Holland. “I still don’t get my going to Budapest. How, why, when?”

Holland glanced at a desk watch and became brisk. “I have an appointment with the President,” he said. “We’ll have to turn this over to some of the other members of this group. They’ll explain details, Joe. Nadine’s going, too. In her case, as a medical attaché in our Embassy, in Budapest. You’ll go as a military observer, check on potential violations of the Universal Disarmament Pact.” A sudden thought struck him. “I imagine it would add to your prestige and possibly open additional doors to you, if you carried more status.” He looked again at the telly-mike on his desk. “Miss Mikhail, in my office here is Joseph Mauser, now Mid-Middle in caste. Please take the necessary steps to raise him to Low-Upper, immediately. I’ll clear this with Tom, and he’ll authorize it as recommended through the White House. It that clear?”

In a daze, Joe could hear the receptionist’s voice. “Yes, sir. Joseph Mauser to be raised to Low-Upper caste immediately.”

Budapest, basically, had changed little over half a millennium.

The Danube, seldom blue except when seen through the eyes of a twosome between whom spark has recently been struck, still wandered its way dividing the old, old town of Pest from the still older town of Buda. Where the stream widens there is room for the one hundred and twelve acres of Margitsziget, or Margaret Island to the West-world. Down through the ages, through Celts and Romans, Slavs and Hungs, Turks and Magyars, none