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

government building new steel mills. But dams, roads, that sort of thing. You could plow billions into such items and get some real use out of them. We both know that our weapons will never be used⁠—they can’t be.”

Jim ticked them off on his fingers. “We already are producing more farm products than we know what to do with; if we build more dams it’ll open up new farm lands and increase the glut. If we build more and better roads, it will improve transportation, which will mean fewer men will be able to move greater tonnage⁠—and throw transportation employees into the unemployed. If we go all out for reforestation, it will eventually bring down the price of lumber and the lumber people are howling already. No,” he shook his head, “there’s just one really foolproof way of disposing of surpluses and using up labor power and that’s war⁠—hot or cold.”

Vovo shrugged, “I suppose so.”

“It amounts to building pyramids, of course.” Jim twisted his mouth sourly. “And since we’re asking questions about each other’s way of life, when is your State going to begin to wither away?”

“How was that?” Vovo asked.

“According to your sainted founder, once you people came to power the State was going to wither away, class rule would be over, and Utopia be on hand. That was a long time ago, and your State is stronger than ours.”

Vovo snorted. “How can we wither away the State as long as we are threatened by capitalist aggression?”

Jim said, “Ha!”

Vovo went on. “You know better than that, Jim. The only way my organization can keep in power is by continually beating the drums, keeping our people stirred up to greater and greater sacrifices by using you as a threat. Didn’t the old Romans have some sort of maxim to the effect that when you’re threatened with unease at home stir up trouble abroad?”

“You’re being even more frank than usual,” Jim said. “But that’s one of the pleasures of these get-togethers, neither of us resorts to hypocrisy. But you can’t keep up these tensions forever.”

“You mean we can’t keep up these tensions forever, Jim. And when they end? Well, personally I can’t see my organization going out without a blood bath.” He grimaced sourly, “And since I’d probably be one of the first to be bathed, I’d like to postpone the time. It’s like having a tiger by the tail, Jim. We can’t let go.”

“Happily, I don’t feel in the same spot,” Jim said. He got up and went to the picture window that took up one entire wall. It faced out over a mountain vista. He looked soberly into the sky.

Vovo joined him, glass in hand.

“Possibly your position isn’t exactly the same as ours but there’ll be some awfully great changes if that military based economy of yours suddenly had peace thrust upon it. You’d have a depression such as you’ve never dreamed of. Let’s face reality, Jim, neither of us can afford peace.”

“Well, we’ve both known that for a long time.”

They both considered somberly, the planet Earth blazing away, a small sun there in the sky.

Jim said, “I sometimes think that the race would have been better off, when man was colonizing Venus and Mars, if it had been a joint enterprise rather than you people doing one, and we the other. If it had all been in the hands of that organization⁠ ⁠…”

“The United Nations?” Vovo supplied.

“… Then when Bomb Day hit, perhaps these new worlds could have gone on to, well, better things.”

“Perhaps,” Vovo shrugged. “I’ve often wondered how Bomb Day started. Who struck the spark.”

“Happily there were enough colonists on both planets to start the race all over again,” Jim said. “What difference does it make, who struck the spark?”

“None, I suppose.” Vovo began to button his collar, readjust his clothes. “Well, shall we emerge and let the quaking multitudes know that once again we have made a shaky agreement? One that will last until the next summit meeting.”

Revolution

Paul Koslov nodded briefly once or twice as he made his way through the forest of desks. Behind him he caught snatches of tittering voices in whisper.

“… That’s him⁠ ⁠… The Chief’s hatchetman⁠ ⁠… Know what they call him in Central America, a pistola, that means⁠ ⁠… About Iraq⁠ ⁠… And that time in Egypt⁠ ⁠… Did you notice his eyes⁠ ⁠… How would you like to date him⁠ ⁠… That’s him. I was at a cocktail party once when he was there. Shivery⁠ ⁠… cold-blooded⁠—”

Paul Koslov grinned inwardly. He hadn’t asked for the reputation but it isn’t everyone who is a legend before thirty-five. What was it Newsweek had called him? “The T. E. Lawrence of the Cold War.” The trouble was it wasn’t something you could turn off. It had its shortcomings when you found time for some personal life.

He reached the Chief’s office, rapped with a knuckle and pushed his way through.

The Chief and a male secretary, who was taking dictation, looked up. The secretary frowned, evidently taken aback by the cavalier entrance, but the Chief said, “Hello, Paul, come on in. Didn’t expect you quite so soon.” And to the secretary, “Dickens, that’s all.”

When Dickens was gone the Chief scowled at his troubleshooter. “Paul, you’re bad for discipline around here. Can’t you even knock before you enter? How is Nicaragua?”

Paul Koslov slumped into a leather easy-chair and scowled. “I did knock. Most of it’s in my report. Nicaragua is⁠ ⁠… tranquil. It’ll stay tranquil for a while, too. There isn’t so much as a parlor pink⁠—”

“And Lopez⁠—?”

Paul said slowly, “Last time I saw Raul was in a swamp near Lake Managua. The very last time.”

The Chief said hurriedly, “Don’t give me the details. I leave details up to you.”

“I know,” Paul said flatly.

His superior drew a pound can of Sir Walter Raleigh across the desk, selected a briar from a pipe rack and while he was packing in tobacco said, “Paul, do you know what day it is⁠—and what year?”

“It’s Tuesday. And 1965.”

The bureau chief looked at