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

his ground. “Yes. I’ll repeat, one of those Crow women has borne two fertile men children. We can’t afford to kill her. For all we know, she might have a dozen more. This haphazard method of a single husband for a whole clan must be replaced.⁠ ⁠…”

The hall broke down into chaos again.

Sally held up a commanding hand for silence. She said, “And if we share you with another forty or fifty women, to what extent will the rest of us have any husband at all?”

He pointed out the sterilies, seated silently in the back. “It would be healthier if you gave up some of this superior contempt you hold for sterile males and accept their companionship. Although they cannot be fathers, they can be mates otherwise. As it is, how much true companionship do you secure from me⁠—any of you? Less than once a month do you see me more than from a distance.”

“Mate with sterilies?” someone gasped from the front row.

“Yes,” Alan snapped back. “And let fertile men be used expressly for attempting to produce additional fertile men. Confound it, can’t you warriors realize what I’m saying? I have reports that there is a woman among the Crows who has borne two fertile male children. Have you ever heard of any such phenomenon before? Do you realize that in the fifteen years I have been the husband of this clan, we have not had even one fertile man child born? Do you realize that in the past twenty years there has been born not one fertile man child in the Turtle clan? Only one in the Burro clan?”

He had them in the palm of his hand now.

“What⁠—what does the Turtle clan think of this plan of yours?” Sally said.

“I was talking to Warren just the other day. He thinks he can win their approval. We can also probably talk the Burros into it. They’re growing desperate. Their husband is nearly sixty years old and has produced only one fertile male child, which was later captured in a raid by the Denver foragers.”

Sally said, “And we’d have to share you with all these, and with our prisoners as well?”

“Yes, in an attempt to breed fertile men back into the race.”

Sally turned to the assembled clan.

A heavy explosion, room-shaking in its violence, all but threw them to the floor. Half a dozen of the younger warriors scurried to the windows, guns at the ready.

In the distance, from the outside, there was the chatter of a machine gun, then individual pistol shots.

“The corral,” Jean the scout said, her lips going back over her teeth.

Vivian came sauntering back into the assembly hall, patting the stock of her new tommy gun appreciately. “Works like a charm,” she said. “That dynamite we captured was fresh too. Blew ’em to smithereens. Only had to finish off half a dozen.”

Alan said, agonizingly, “Vivian! You didn’t⁠ ⁠… the prisoners?”

She grinned at him. “Alan, you’re as cute as a button, but you don’t know anything about women’s affairs. Now you be a honey and go back to taking care of the children.”

Unborn Tomorrow

Betty looked up from her magazine. She said mildly, “You’re late.”

“Don’t yell at me, I feel awful,” Simon told her. He sat down at his desk, passed his tongue over his teeth in distaste, groaned, fumbled in a drawer for the aspirin bottle.

He looked over at Betty and said, almost as though reciting, “What I need is a vacation.”

“What,” Betty said, “are you going to use for money?”

“Providence,” Simon told her whilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle, “will provide.”

“Hm-m-m. But before providing vacations it’d be nice if Providence turned up a missing jewel deal, say. Something where you could deduce that actually the ruby ring had gone down the drain and was caught in the elbow. Something that would net about fifty dollars.”

Simon said, mournful of tone, “Fifty dollars? Why not make it five hundred?”

“I’m not selfish,” Betty said. “All I want is enough to pay me this week’s salary.”

“Money,” Simon said. “When you took this job you said it was the romance that appealed to you.”

“Hm-m-m. I didn’t know most sleuthing amounted to snooping around department stores to check on the clerks knocking down.”

Simon said, enigmatically, “Now it comes.”

There was a knock.

Betty bounced up with Olympic agility and had the door swinging wide before the knocking was quite completed.

He was old, little and had bug eyes behind pince-nez glasses. His suit was cut in the style of yesteryear but when a suit costs two or three hundred dollars you still retain caste whatever the styling.

Simon said unenthusiastically, “Good morning, Mr. Oyster.” He indicated the client’s chair. “Sit down, sir.”

The client fussed himself with Betty’s assistance into the seat, bug-eyed Simon, said finally, “You know my name, that’s pretty good. Never saw you before in my life. Stop fussing with me, young lady. Your ad in the phone book says you’ll investigate anything.”

“Anything,” Simon said. “Only one exception.”

“Excellent. Do you believe in time travel?”

Simon said nothing. Across the room, where she had resumed her seat, Betty cleared her throat. When Simon continued to say nothing she ventured, “Time travel is impossible.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why?”

Betty looked to her boss for assistance. None was forthcoming. There ought to be some very quick, positive, definite answer. She said, “Well, for one thing, paradox. Suppose you had a time machine and traveled back a hundred years or so and killed your own great-grandfather. Then how could you ever be born?”

“Confound it if I know,” the little fellow growled. “How?”

Simon said, “Let’s get to the point, what you wanted to see me about.”

“I want to hire you to hunt me up some time travelers,” the old boy said.

Betty was too far in now to maintain her proper role of silent secretary. “Time travelers,” she said, not very intelligently.

The potential client sat more erect, obviously with intent to hold the floor for a time. He removed the pince-nez glasses and pointed them at Betty. He said, “Have you read much science fiction,