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

Description
Dallas McCord βMackβ Reynolds was an American science fiction writer who authored almost two hundred short stories and novellas, was a staple in all the major science fiction and fantasy magazines and published dozens of science fiction novels. He began his writing career in the late 1940s. His fiction focused on exploring and challenging both the socioeconomic themes of the day and the implications of the Cold War that raged throughout his career. A thoughtful writer of speculative fiction, many of Mack Reynoldsβ predictions have come to pass, including the credit-card economy, remote warfare and a worldwide computer network. His thoughts about the outcomes of both the Soviet and western political and economic systems are still highly relevant.
This collection gathers stories that were published in Analog, Astounding Science Fiction, Amazing Stories and others. Ordered by date of first publication, they range from spy adventures to the ultimate expression of corporate warfare and from a very short 1000-word story to full-blown novellas.
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- Author: Mack Reynolds
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Loo said seriously, βOh, there are a great many things of that type to notice here in the Soviet Union.β
Hank had to grin. βWell, Iβm glad you jokers still have open minds.β
Paco waggled a finger negatively at him. βWeβve had open minds all along, my friend. It is yours that seems closed. In spite of the fact that I spent four years in your country I sometimes confess I donβt understand you Americans. I think you are too immersed in your TV programs, your movies and your light fiction.β
βI can feel myself being saddled up again,β Hank complained. βAll set for another riding.β
Loo laughed softly, his perfect white teeth gleaming in his black face.
Paco said, βYou seem to have the fictional good guys and bad guys outlook. And, in this world of controversy, you assume that you are the good guys, the heroes, and since that is so then the Soviets must be the bad guys. And, as in the movies, everything the good guys do is fine and everything the bad guys do, is evil. I sometimes think that if the Russians had developed a cure for cancer first you Americans would have refused to use it.β
Hank had had enough. He said, βLook, Paco, there are two hundred million Americans. For you, or anyone else, to come along and try to lump that many people neatly together is pure silliness. Youβll find every type of person that exists in the world in any country. The very tops of intelligence, and submorons living in institutions; the most highly educated of scientists, and men who didnβt finish grammar school; youβll find saints, and gangsters; infant prodigies and juvenile delinquents; and millions upon millions of just plain ordinary people much like the people of Argentina, or England, or France or whatever. True enough, among all our two hundred million there are some mighty prejudiced people, some mighty backward ones, and some downright foolish ones. But if you think the United States got to the position sheβs in today through the efforts of a whole people who are foolish, then youβre obviously pretty far off the beam yourself.β
Paco was looking at him narrowly. βAccepted, friend Hank, and I apologize. Thatβs quite the most effective outburst Iβve heard from you in this week weβve known each other. It occurs to me that perhaps you are other than I first thought.β
Oh, oh. Hank backtracked. He said, βGood grief, letβs drop it.β
Paco said, βWell, just to change the subject, gentlemen, there is one thing above all that I noted here in Leningrad.β
βWhat was that?β Loo said.
βItβs the only town Iβve ever seen where I felt an urge to kiss a cop,β Paco said soulfully. βDid you notice? Half the traffic police in town are cute little blondes.β
Loo rolled over. βA fascinating observation, but personally I am going to take a nap. Tonight itβs the Red Arrow Express to Moscow and rest might be in order, particularly if the train has square wheels, burns wood and stops and repairs bridges all along the way, as Iβm sure Hank believes.β
Hank reached down, got hold of one of his shoes and heaved it.
βMissed!β Loo grinned.
The Red Arrow Express had round wheels, burned diesel fuel and made the trip between Leningrad and Moscow overnight. In one respect, it was the most unique train ride Hank Kuran had ever had. The track contained not a single curve from the one city to the other. Its engineers must have laid the roadbed out with a ruler.
The cars like the rest of public transportation, were as comfortable as any Hank knew. Traveling second class, as the Progressive Tours pilgrims did, involved four people in a compartment for the night, with one exception. At the end of the car was a smaller compartment containing two bunks only.
The Intourist guide who had shepherded them around Leningrad took them to the train, saw them all safely aboard, told them another Intourist employee would pick them up at the station in Moscow.
It was late. Hank was assigned the two-bunk compartment. He put his glasses on the tiny window table, sat on the edge of the lower and began to pull off his shoes. He didnβt look up when the door opened until a voice said, icebergs dominating the tone, βJust what are you doing in here?β
Hank blinked up at her. βHello, Char. What?β
Char Moore snapped, βI said, what are you doing in my compartment?β
βYours? Sorry, the conductor just assigned me here. Evidently thereβs been some mistake.β
βI suggest you rectify it, Mr. Stevenson.β
Out in the corridor a voice, heavy with Britishisms, complained plaintively, βDid you ever hear the loik? They put men and women into the same compartment. Oim expected to sleep with a loidy in the bunk under me.β
Hank cleared his throat, didnβt allow himself the luxury of a smile. He said, βIβll see what I can do, Char. Seems to me I did read somewhere that the Russkies see nothing wrong in putting strangers in the same sleeping compartment.β
Char Moore stood there, saying nothing but breathing deeply enough to express American womanhood insulted.
βAll right, all right,β he said, retying his shoes and retrieving his glasses. βI didnβt engineer this.β He went looking for the conductor.
He was back, yawning by this time, fifteen minutes later. Char Moore was sitting on the side of the bottom bunk, sipping a glass of tea that sheβd bought for a few kopecks from the portress. She looked up coolly as he entered, but her voice was more pleasant. βGet everything fixed?β
Hank said, βWhat bunk do you want, upper or lower?β
βThatβs not funny.β
βItβs not supposed to be.β Hank pulled his bag from under the bunk and from it drew pajamas and his dressing gown. βCheck with the rest of the tour if you want. The conductor couldnβt care less. We were
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