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

Chessman snorted.

Dick Hawkins said, “I think Barry’s right. They can bear watching. Besides in another decade or so they’ll realize we’re going to beat them. Mayer’s ego isn’t going to take that. He’d go to just about any extreme to keep from losing face back on Earth.”

Natt Roberts said worriedly, “I think they’re right, Joe. Certainly it wouldn’t hurt to have a few Security men over there. My department could train them and we’d ferry them over in this space boat.”

“I’ll make the decisions,” Chessman growled at them. “I’ll think about this. It’s just possible that you’re right though.”

Behind them, Reif looked thoughtfully at his teenage son.

Down the long palace corridor strode Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins, Natt Roberts, the aging Reif and his son Taller, now in the prime of manhood. Their faces were equally wan from long hours without sleep. Half a dozen Tulan infantrymen brought up their rear.

As they passed Security Police guards, to left and right, eyes took in their weapons, openly carried. But such eyes shifted and the guards remained at their posts. Only one sergeant opened his mouth in protest. “Sir,” he said to Watson, hesitantly, “you are entering Number One’s presence armed.”

“Shut up,” Natt Roberts rapped at him.

Reif said, “That will be all, sergeant.”

The Security Police sergeant looked emptily after them as they progressed down the corridor.

Together, Watson and Reif motioned aside the two Tulan soldiers who stood before the door of their destination, and pushed inward without knocking.

Joe Chessman looked up wearily from his map and dispatch laden desk. For a moment his hand went to the heavy military revolver at his right but when he realized the identity of his callers, it fell away.

“What’s up now?” he said, his voice on the verge of cracking.

Watson acted as spokesman. “It’s everywhere the same. The communes are on the fine edge of revolt. They’ve been pushed too far; they’ve got to the point where they just don’t give a damn. A spark and all Texcoco goes up in flames.”

Reif said coldly, “We need immediate reforms. They’ve got to be pacified. An immediate announcement of more consumer goods, fewer State taxes, above all a relaxation of Security Police pressures. Given immediate promise of these, we might maintain ourselves.”

Joe Chessman’s sullen face was twitching at the right corner of his mouth. Young Taller made no attempt to disguise his contempt at the other’s weakness in time of stress.

Chessman’s eyes went around the half circle of them. “This is the only alternative? It’ll slow up our heavy industry program. We might not catch up with Genoa as quickly as planned.”

Watson gestured with a hand in quick irritation. “Look here, Chessman, don’t we get through to you? Whether or not we build up a steel capacity as large as Amschel Mayer’s isn’t important now. Everything’s at stake.”

“Don’t talk to me that way, Barry,” Chessman growled truculently. “I’ll make the decisions. I’ll do the thinking.” He said to Reif, “How much of the Tulan army is loyal?”

The aging Tulan looked at Watson before turning back to Joe Chessman. “All of the Tulan army is loyal⁠—to me.”

“Good!” Chessman pushed some of the dispatches on his desk aside, letting them flutter to the floor. He bared a field map. “If we crush half a dozen of the local communes⁠ ⁠… crush them hard! Then the others⁠ ⁠…”

Watson said very slowly and so low as hardly to be heard, “You didn’t bother to listen, Chessman. We told you, all that’s needed is a spark.”

Joe Chessman sat back in his chair, looked at them all again, one by one. Reevaluating. For a moment the facial tic stopped and his eyes held the old alertness.

“I see,” he said. “And you all recommend capitulation to their demands?”

“It’s our only chance,” Hawkins said. “We don’t even know it’ll work. There’s always the chance if we throw them a few crumbs they’ll want the whole loaf. You’ve got to remember that some of them have been living for twenty-five years or more under this pressure. The valve is about to blow.”

“I see,” Chessman grunted. “And what else? I can see in your faces there’s something else.”

The three Earthmen didn’t answer. Their eyes shifted.

He looked to young Taller and then to Reif. “What else?”

“We need a scapegoat,” Reif said without expression.

Joe Chessman thought about that. He looked to Barry Watson again.

Watson said, “The whole Texcocan State is about to topple. Not only do we have to give them immediate reform, but we’re going to have to blame the past hardships and mistakes on somebody. Somebody has to take the rap, be thrown to the wolves. If not, maybe we’ll all wind up taking the blame.”

“Ah,” Chessman said. His red-rimmed eyes went around them again, thoughtfully. “We should be able to dig up a few local chieftains and some of the Security Police heads.”

They shook their heads. “It has to be somebody big,” Natt Roberts said thickly, “a few of my Security Police won’t do it.”

Joe Chessman’s eyes went to Reif. “The Khan is the highest ranking Texcocan of all,” he said, finally. “The Khan and some Security Police heads would satisfy them.”

Reif’s face was as frigid as the Earthman’s. He said, “I am afraid not, Joseph Chessman. You are Number One. It is your statue that is in every commune square. It is your portrait that hangs in every distribution center, every mess hall, every schoolroom. You are the Number One⁠—as you have so often pointed out to us. My title has become meaningless.”

Joe Chessman spat out a curse, fumbled the gun into his hand and fired before the Tulan soldiers could get to him. In a moment they had wrested the weapon from his hand and had his arms pinioned. It was too late.

Reif had been thrown backward two paces by the blast of the heavy-calibered gun. Now he held a palm over his belly and staggered to a chair. He collapsed into it, looked at his