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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
The Second Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK® assembles a stellar collection of rare and classic works by a science fiction master! Here are 21 tales spanning space and time by the author of the Joe Mauser series and the Legrange series. Included are:
COME IN, SPACEPORT
COMPOUNDED INTEREST
THE BUSINESS, AS USUAL
GOOD INDIAN
NO RETURN FROM ELBA
PACIFIST
EARTHLINGS GO HOME!
ALBATROSS
THE ENEMY WITHIN
SURVIVOR
FAD
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EXTRATERRESTRIAL
UTOPIAN
PRONE
DOWN THE RIVER
SECOND ADVENT
ROMP
FIDO
ISOLATIONIST
NOT IN THE RULES
If you enjoy this ebook, check out the more than 400 other volumes in the MEGAPACK® series by Wildside Press, covering not just science fiction, but mysteries, westerns, horror, romance, and much more. Search on "Wildside Press Megapack" at your favorite ebook store to see all available volumes.
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
THE MEGAPACK SERIES
COME IN, SPACEPORT
COMPOUNDED INTEREST
THE BUSINESS, AS USUAL
GOOD INDIAN
NO RETURN FROM ELBA
PACIFIST
EARTHLINGS GO HOME!
ALBATROSS
THE ENEMY WITHIN
SURVIVOR
FAD
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EXTRATERRESTRIAL
UTOPIAN
PRONE
DOWN THE RIVER
SECOND ADVENT
ROMP
FIDO
ISOLATIONIST
NOT IN THE RULES
COPYRIGHT INFO
The Second Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
The MEGAPACK® name is a registered trademark of Wildside Press LLC.
* * * *
Author’s Introductions originally published in The Best of Mack Reynolds. Copyright © 1976 by Mack Reynolds.
“Come In, Spaceport” originally appeared in Go: Reading in the Content Areas. Copyright © 1974 by Scholastic Magazine.
“Compounded Interest” originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Aug 1956. Copyright © 1956 by Mack Reynolds. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“The Business, As Usual” originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 1952. Copyright © 1952 by Mercury Press. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Good Indian” originally appeared in Analog, Sept 1962. Copyright © 1962 by Conde Nast Publications. Copyright renewed 1990 by Mack Reynolds. Renewal B00000987665. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“No Return from Elba” originally appeared in Fantastic Stories, September-October 1953. Copyright © 1953 by Mack Reynolds. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Pacifist” originally appeared in The Magazine of fantasy & science fiction, Jan. 1964. Copyright © 1964 by Mercury Press.
“Earthlings Go Home!” originally appeared in Rogue, August 1962. Copyright © 1962 by Mack Reynolds. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Albatross” originally appeared in Imagination, April 1955. Copyright © 1955 by Mack Reynolds. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“The Enemy Within” originally appeared in Analog, April 1967. Copyright © 1967 by Conde Nast Publications.
“Survivor” originally appeared in Analog, July 1966. Copyright © 1966 by Conde Nast Publications.
“Fad” originally appeared in Analog, April 1965. Copyright © 1965 by Conde Nast Publications.
“Spaceman on a Spree” originally appeared in Worlds of Tomorrow, June 1963. Copyright © 1963 by Mack Reynolds. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“The Adventure of the Extraterrestrial” originally appeared in Analog, July 1965. Copyright © 1965 by Conde Nast Publications.
“Utopian” originally appeared in The Year 2000. Copyright © 1970 by Mack Reynolds.
“Prone” originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, September 1954. Copyright © 1954 by Mercury Press. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Down the River” originally appeared in Startling Stories, September 1950. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Second Advent” originally appeared in Worlds of If, May-June 1974. Copyright © 1974 by UPD Publishing Corp.
“Romp” originally appeared in Analog, Oct 1966. Copyright © 1966 by Conde Nast Publications.
“Fido” originally appeared in Fantastic Adventures, May 1950. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Isolationist” originally appeared in Fantastic Adventures, April 1950. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Not in the Rules” originally appeared in Imagination, April 1951. Copyright © 1951 by Mack Reynolds. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Romp” originally appeared in Analog, October 1966. Copyright © 1966 by Conde Nast Publications.
“Fido” originally appeared in Fantastic Adventures, May 1950. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
“Not in the Rules” originally appeared in Imagination, April 1951. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Welcome to The Second Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK®, continuing our Mack Reynolds reprint program. When Wildside Press purchased Mack Reynolds’ literary estate from his son, Emil, in 2013, we were far more familiar with his novels than his short stories. That’s undoubtedly because many of those short stories have been undeservedly locked away in dusty old magazines for generations. In fact, as far as we can tell, only one collection of Mack’s shorter works was published in his lifetime—The Best of Mack Reynolds, in 1976 (Pocket Books). [And decidedly not to be confused with another, unauthorized collection of random public domain short stories published under the same title many years later and which we are trying to get renamed to avoid confusion among readers.)
Anyway, the Pocket Books edition was the source for most of this volume. I have kept Mack’s original introductions, too, which I think add a lot to the stories. I removed several fantasy stories as well as stories which appeared in our first Mack Reynolds Megapack to avoid duplication and to focus this volume more on science fiction. (Don’t worry, those fantasy stories will appear in other Megapacks. Wildside Press wastes no stories!)
And if after reading the first two Mack Reynolds Megapacks and want still more after reading The Mack Reynolds Megapack and The Second Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK®, I refer you to the latest issue of my fanzine, Adventure Tales #7, which is a Special Mack Reynolds issue and contains 6 more stories plus 2 essays by Mack (plus work by a lot of other great pulp writers). It should be in the same ebook store where you purchased this volume.
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
ABOUT THE MEGAPACKS
Over the last few years, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has grown to be among our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS
The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).
Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.
THE MEGAPACK SERIES
MYSTERY
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The Bulldog Drummond Megapack*
The Charlie Chan Megapack*
The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack
The Detective Megapack
The Father Brown Megapack
The Girl Detective Megapack
The Second Girl Detective Megapack
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack*
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack*
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack
The First Mystery Megapack
The Second Mystery Megapack
The Penny Parker Megapack
The Philo Vance Megapack*
The Pulp Fiction Megapack
The Raffles Megapack
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack
The Victorian Mystery Megapack
The Wilkie Collins Megapack
GENERAL INTEREST
The Adventure Megapack
The Baseball Megapack
The Cat Story Megapack
The Second Cat Story Megapack
The Third Cat Story Megapack
The Third Cat Story Megapack
The Christmas Megapack
The Second Christmas Megapack
The Classic American Short Stories Megapack, Vol. 1.
The Classic Humor Megapack
The Dog Story Megapack
The Doll Story Megapack
The Horse Story Megapack
The Military Megapack
The Pirate Story Megapack
The Sea-Story Megapack
THE GOLDEN AGE OF SCIENCE FICTION MEGAPACKS
1. Winston K. Marks
2. Mark Clifton
3. Poul Anderson
4. Clifford D. Simak
SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY
The Edward Bellamy Megapack
The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack
The Fredric Brown Megapack
The Ray Cummings Megapack
The Philip K. Dick Megapack
The Dragon Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The Edmond Hamilton Megapack
The C.J. Henderson Megapack
The Murray Leinster Megapack
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack
The Jack London Science Fiction Megapack
The Martian Megapack
The A. Merritt Megapack*
The E. Nesbit Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Pulp Fiction Megapack
The Mack Reynolds Megapack
The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack
The Science-Fantasy Megapack
The First Science Fiction Megapack
The Second Science Fiction Megapack
The Third Science Fiction Megapack
The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack
The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack
The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack
The Seventh Science Fiction Megapack
The Eighth Science Fiction Megapack
The Robert Sheckley Megapack
The Space Opera Megapack
The Steampunk Megapack
The Time Travel Megapack
The William Hope Hodgson Megapack
The Wizard of Oz Megapack
HORROR
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The Second Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The E.F. Benson Megapack
The Second E.F. Benson Megapack
The Algernon Blackwood Megapack
The Second Algernon Blackwood Megapack
The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack
The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack
The Ghost Story Megapack
The Second Ghost Story Megapack
The Third Ghost Story Megapack
The Haunts & Horrors Megapack
The Horror Megapack
The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Macabre Megapack
The Second Macabre Megapack
The Third Macabre Megapack
The Arthur Machen Megapack**
The Mummy Megapack
The Occult Detective Megapack
The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack
The Vampire Megapack
The Weird Fiction Megapack
The Werewolf Megapack
The William Hope Hodgson Megapack
WESTERNS
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The Max Brand Megapack
The Buffalo Bill Megapack
The Cowboy Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack
The Western Megapack
The Second Western Megapack
YOUNG ADULT
The Boys’ Adventure Megapack
The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack
The Dare Boys Megapack
The Doll Story Megapack
The G.A. Henty Megapack
The Girl Detectives Megapack
The E. Nesbit Megapack
The Penny Parker Megapack
The Pinocchio Megapack
The Rover Boys Megapack
The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack
The Tom Swift Megapack
The Wizard of Oz Megapack
AUTHOR MEGAPACKS
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack
The Edward Bellamy Megapack
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The E.F. Benson Megapack
The Second E.F. Benson Megapack
The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson Megapack
The Algernon Blackwood Megapack
The Second Algernon Blackwood Megapack
The Max Brand Megapack
The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack
The Fredric Brown Megapack
The Second Fredric Brown Megapack
The Wilkie Collins Megapack
The Stephen Crane Megapack
The Ray Cummings Megapack
The Guy de Maupassant Megapack
The Philip K. Dick Megapack
The Frederick Douglass Megapack
The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack
The F. Scott Fitzgerald Megapack
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack*
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack*
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The Anna Katharine Green Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Edmond Hamilton Megapack
The Dashiell Hammett Megapack
The C.J. Henderson Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Selma Lagerlof Megapack
The Harold Lamb Megapack
The Murray Leinster Megapack***
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack***
The Jonas Lie Megapack
The Arthur Machen Megapack**
The Katherine Mansfield Megapack
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack
The A. Merritt Megapack*
The Talbot Mundy Megapack
The E. Nesbit Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Mack Reynolds Megapack
The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
The Saki Megapack
The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack
The Robert Sheckley Megapack
The Bram Stoker Megapack
The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack
The Virginia Woolf Megapack
The William Hope Hodgson Megapack
* Not available in the United States
** Not available in the European Union
***Out of print.
OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY
The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany Megapack”)
The Wildside Book of Fantasy
The Wildside Book of Science Fiction
Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
COME IN, SPACEPORT
AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
This is a type of story undreamed of a quarter of a century ago. It’s a juvenile and written on order for a child’s textbook, GO: Reading in the Content Areas, edited by Harold L. Herber of Syracuse University. Heavens to Betsy, who would have thought that science fiction would one day be turning up in children’s textbooks? When I was a lad, we fans used to have to hide our magazines from our parents.
—Mack Reynolds
* * * *
Bruce Camaroon was on duty as repeat man for the monitoring computers when the first call came through. There was precious little to do. He just had to be there, in case something did come up. This job was going to go down the drain one of these days; the computers didn’t really need him. He could have handled the duties, home in bed. All he’d have to do was have an alarm, so they could rouse him up, if anything developed.
Radio technician Dick MaGruder was sitting across the desk from him, chewing the rag, and Jill Farnsworth, the secretary, who was just about as useful as Bruce was, was on the other side of the control room, using her voco-typer. She was probably doing personal letters.
One of the computers had evidently picked up something out of the way. His screen clicked.
A rather high-pitched voice said: ‘‘Emergency, emergency. Please come in. This is Jimmy… uh, James Barry. In Lifeboat 2, of Spaceship Promised Land. There are two of us. My sister and me. She’s hurt. We’re all that’s left. They… they’re all dead. Our parents… and everybody. Jane’s burnt bad. Please have an ambulance at the spaceport. Please put me in contact with a doctor, right away. I have to ask him what to do.”
Bruce Camaroon’s eyes were bugging. “The Promised Land! It blew! There were no survivors!”
MaGruder snarled, “Shut up, listen!”
The voice went on. “I smeared all the ointments in the medicine chest on her and bandaged her all up. My father is… my father was, a doctor. I also stuck one, uh, Syrette of, I think, a sedative into her. It said on the tube, Pseudo-Morphine. I don’t know if I should give her any more or not. She’s asleep. She’s not very big. Ten years old. I don’t know if she should have been given a full Syrette or not. Or maybe she even needs another one. She’s burnt pretty bad, all over, almost.”
He took a deep, tear-choked breath, and went on. “Anyway, I’m following the space lifeboat instruction book as good as I can. I think I’m doing all right. I think we’re heading for the Northern Hemisphere. The book says there are four spaceports there. So I’m calling New Denver Spaceport. Calling New Denver Spaceport, for landing instructions. Please come in, New Denver Spaceport. Uh, over and out.”
“Holy smokes,” Bruce yelled. “Jill! Get one of the pilots. I think Bill is on standby.”
Jill was ahead of him. “He’s on his way already,” she snapped. Into her auto-secretary she was saying, “Locate Mr. Zimmerman, locate Mr. Barkley, locate Mr. Rykov. Instruct them to check in with control tower immediately.”
Bruce said to Dick MaGruder, who lunged into the seat before the set on the space pick-up, “Try to get video on this and more amplification. He sounds pretty far out.”
“Right.”
Bruce went back to his own screen and said, “New Denver Spaceport, calling James Barry, Lifeboat 2, of Promised Land. Come in, Barry.”
“Emergency, emergency. Space Lifeboat 2 of Promised Land, calling New Denver Spaceport. Require landing instructions. Require landing instructions.”
Bill Wellingham came bursting into the office. He slid into the pilot’s seat and took over.
“Okay. This is New Denver. We’re getting you fairly clear. Now listen. Right on your left is a small switch painted green and labeled Control Release. Pull it down. We’ll lock in on you.”
Dick MaGruder said, “Here’s your video, Bruce. Kind of faint.”
“Holy smokes,” Bruce Camaroon protested. The face and upper torso that had faded in was that of a thirteen or fourteen year old.
The youngster was saying, a bit desperately, “Calling New Denver Spaceport for landing instructions. Emergency. Emergency.”
Bill Wellingham said urgently, “Receiving you loud and clear, son.”
Jill said, “Tell him a doctor is on the way to give him instructions about his sister.”
Bill said, “A doctor is on the way to give you medical advice. Now listen, boy. Just to your left on that bank of buttons and dials and everything is a green switch. Right under it is a little sign saying Control Release. Now just push it down.”
The boy was peering into the screen before which he sat, listening anxiously. Finally, he shook his head and picked up a booklet from what must have been the radio table before him. He thumbed through it, licking what must have been dry lips.
He looked into the screen again and said, “Emergency. Emergency. Calling Dundee Spaceport. Calling Dundee Spaceport. Jimmy Barry, Lifeboat 2 of Spaceship Promised Land, calling for emergency landing instructions. Ten-year-old girl aboard, needing… must have… immediate medical attention. Calling Dundee Spaceport.”
The occupants of the control room at Spaceport New Denver slumped back into their chairs, aghast.
Jill said “What… what’s happened?”
Nobody answered her.
They could hear the Scottish spaceport answering. “Calling Jimmy Barry. Calling Jimmy Barry. We are receiving you clearly, Jimmy Barry. You are all right. You’ll be fine, lad. Now, here is what you must do, you know. Turn to your left. There on the bulkhead is a green lever. It is labeled Control Release. Simply press it down and we’ll take over, laddy. Don’t worry. Everything is all right.”
The thin voice came through again. “Calling Dundee Spaceport. Space Lifeboat 2, Promised Land. Please come in. I need landing instructions.”
Dick MaGruder said flatly, “He isn’t receiving.”
The boy peered anxiously into the screen. MaGruder had been able to get better amplification by now. The youngster’s face was quite clear.
After a time he took up his pamphlet again and thumbed through it. He muttered, quite audibly, “Maybe at this time of the day they’re on the far side of the planet. Maybe they can’t hear me.”
Bruce groaned. “We can hear you, kid. We can hear you.”
The boy looked up and said, obviously very carefully, and as clear as he could make his voice, “Calling Kiev Spaceport. Calling Kiev Spaceport. I do not speak Russian. Lifeboat 2, Spaceship Promised Land. Emergency. Emergency. Please send me landing instructions. Uh, over and out.”
The voice that responded was obviously foreign to the boy’s native language, heavy with accent. But it said, “Kiev Spaceport. We read you, we read you, young James Barry. You are coming in clearly. We can bring you down. The Soviet Complex has been most distressed by the terrible loss of the Promised Land and its refugees. We sorrow with you for the destruction of your parents and your comrades. However, now there is work at hand. What you must do is turn to your left. There on the board of control of your space lifeboat is a switch. It is green in color. You must drop it. Then we will be in control. Then we will bring you down. We have heard your other messages to America and to Great Britain. We will have an ambulance for your sad little sister. All will be well. Drop the switch.”
“Calling Kiev Spaceport. Calling Kiev Spaceport.”
Jill rolled her eyes upward in agony.
After a time. “Calling Peking Spaceport. Calling Peking Spaceport. Emergency. Calling Peking Spaceport.”
The voice that answered was in perfect English, and it answered immediately.
“Peking Spaceport calling Space Lifeboat 2, of the Promised Land. We are familiar with your problem, young Mr. Barry. We are afraid there is something wrong with your receiver. If you can receive us, immediately deflect the small green lever to your left which is labeled Control Release. You are in an American K-13 space lifecraft. We have the specifications, as do all nations which participate in space. We can bring you down quite safely. A China People’s Republic ambulance is awaiting with our most competent doctors specializing in burns for your so sorry little sister.”
There were perhaps fifteen minutes of silence, during which the boy was peering into the screen. Then he said, and there was a weary note in his voice:
“Mayday, Mayday. I think that’s what it’s called. Calling any Earth spaceport. Emergency, emergency. Space Lifeboat 2. Spaceship Promised Land. I have to have instructions for landing. I don’t know anything about this. There is nothing that makes any sense to me in the direction books. I have to have…I have to be told about coming down to land. I don’t know how to do it. My sister… I’m afraid my sister is dying. I have to have some doctor tell me what to do…I have to be told what to do…”
Jill said, sickly, “What’s involved? If he’s as old as he looks, he should be able to read the pamphlets.”
Bill Wellingham looked at her emptily. “You’ve been working here this long and you don’t know the answer to that? Spacecraft are landed from the ground up, not from space down. Sure, a pilot who has studied five years or so can land a specially designed spacecraft on some obscure satellite or something. But the average spacecraft, the liners, the cargo carriers, the lifecraft and all the rest are landed from the spaceports by competent pilots who know how to do it. It isn’t just that that kid up there is in his early teens. Even if he was a gung-ho scientist with a background in space navigation, he couldn’t land a lifeboat. I’d have my work cut out doing it, and I’m a pro.”
The boy’s voice was saying urgently, “Emergency, emergency. Calling any Earth Spaceport.”
Bruce Camaroon wearily flicked on his screen and said, “New Denver Spaceport calling Jimmy Barry, Space Lifeboat 2. Come in, Jimmy Barry.”
On the office space communications screen, which Dick had thrown on, they could hear the others.
“Dundee Spaceport calling Jimmy Barry...”
“Kiev Spaceport calling Space Lifeboat 2...”
“Peking Spaceport responding to James Barry. Come in, James Barry...”
There was despair on the boy’s face. “Maybe I’m too far out,” he muttered. “Nobody seems to hear me.”
* * * *
Later, when the new shift took over, Bruce Camaroon, Dick MaGruder, Bill Wellingham and Jill Farnsworth sat at the administration building’s canteen over coffee. Their expressions were all wan.
There was a group of fifteen or twenty at the far end of the room gathered about the commercial TV screen. The news commentator was replaying all that had thus far developed, with comments from space pilots, space authorities, and anyone else he could think of to call upon for opinions, including representatives of the foreign spaceports. Bruce Camaroon suspected that every other news commentator on the air, anywhere on Earth, was doing the same. Two women from landing control, watching the broadcast, were openly crying.
Will Breck came by briskly. He said over his shoulder to Bill, “We’ve got a fix on him. He’s about two days out and coming in at maximum.” He hurried on.
Bruce said to Bill Wellingham, “What’s maximum for a K-13 lifecraft?”
“About twenty thousand space knots.”
Jill bit her underlip. She said, “What will happen if he doesn’t throw that switch? Will he crash?”
Bill shook his head, bitterly. “If he hits the world, which is unlikely without us to bring him in, he’ll burn up in the atmosphere. At least that would be quick, probably less than a minute. If he misses the world, he’ll go on past and eventually be swallowed up in the sun. But their food and oxygen probably wouldn’t last that long.”
Mark Ellington went by. He called to them, “The Russian Orbiting Space Platform is trying to raise him. If they can, they could relay landing instructions.”
“Any luck?” Bruce said.
“Not so far.”
Dick MaGruder said wearily, “If they could raise him, so could we. Something’s wrong with his set.”
Jill said, “Perhaps he misread the directions. Maybe he’ll reread them and get it to work correctly.”
Dick shook his head. “They couldn’t be simpler. That set was designed with hysterical, injured, half-crazed victims of a space disaster in mind. The kid might be afraid —I assume he is—but he’s not hysterical and he’s obviously smart enough to have gotten this far. No, he’s read the directions all right. The set’s broken. Probably happened when the Promised Land blew.”
Bruce said to Bill, “No possible manner of getting a rescue craft up to him before he enters the atmosphere? Willy said he was still two days out.”
The space pilot was negative. “No. I’ve already thought of that. So probably has everybody else. But there’s no way of getting into that lifeboat in space. They’d have to decompress it and there’s no spacesuits in it. It would kill the kids. Besides, I doubt if we could get something up on such short notice.”
Dick MaGruder said sourly, “Maybe it’s best for the two of them anyway.”
They all stared at him.
“What do you mean?” Jill demanded indignantly.
Dick shrugged, his face still sour. “Look at the position they’re in. No parents. No resources. No country, even.”
“Why, why their parents must have been Americans.” Bruce knew what Dick was getting at. He said, “No. When the Mars Colony was formed about twenty years ago, there was a lot of bitterness. The colonists, to get publicity so they could raise funds, made a lot of dramatic statements about how they were fleeing Earth because of how badly it was being run by the various governments, because of how it had been polluted and its resources stripped by greedy men, because of hot wars, cold wars, bush wars, arms races and all the rest. They heaped scorn all over the place and then, finally, dramatically, they all renounced their citizenships in the countries to which they belonged. Jimmy and Jane Barry have no country. Dick’s right. They have no people, no resources, and no country. If they ever get down, maybe somebody, somewhere, will be kind enough to put them in some sort of charitable institution for orphans. I don’t know. There’s a lot of prejudice in the world against the Martian colonists. After spending all that money they collected, they finally had to give up and start back, their tails between their legs. A lot of people had invested with them, thinking that one day Martian mineral resources and so forth could be exploited. Well, it was all money down the drain. And, as it worked out, they didn’t even get back.”
Jill said, “I couldn’t possibly go to bed, or even eat. Let’s go back to the control room and see what’s going on.”
Bruce’s shift was back on duty by the time young Jimmy Barry came onto the radio waves again.
His face was drawn and it was obvious that he had given up most of his hope. He carefully called each spaceport in turn, using practically identical messages as before, and as before he drew a complete blank. For a time he fiddled with the set’s controls, sometimes fading himself out completely and then fading back in again. But nothing worked.
“I’ll wait a little while and then try again,” he muttered.
Leaving the set on, he came to his feet and they could see him retreat into the background. They were receiving him very clearly now and part of the interior of the space lifeboat as well. He approached a clumsily swathed little figure, stretched out on a bunk set into the bulkhead.
“Jane,” Jill Farnsworth said emptily.
The boy stared down at his sister and shook his head as though in despair. There was some kind of a kit sitting on a table next to the bunk. He reached into it and came up with some object they couldn’t make out.
“Probably another Syrette of Pseudo-Morphine,” Dick MaGruder said tightly. “What did the docs say?”
Bruce said, “It’s all right. The kind they put in the medical kits in those lifeboats are only one quarter grain. But, of course, Jimmy doesn’t know that. He’s afraid an overdose will kill her. He undoubtedly figures that with a body that small she can only take possibly half as much as a full-grown adult.”
The boy evidently came to a decision. The little figure beneath him had been twisting and turning on the bunk. He pressed home the needle of the Syrette and squeezed the narcotic into her.
He turned and went back to the radio table and stared at the screen gloomily.
Finally, he tried again. “Calling New Denver Spaceport. Calling New Denver Spaceport.”
“Oh, Lord,” Bill Wellingham blurted. “Just a little flick of that switch, Jimmy, son. Just a little flick.”
Bruce said into his screen, hopelessly, “Calling Jimmy Barry. New Denver Spaceport calling Jimmy Barry. Come in, Jimmy. Come in.”
The boy’s face fell and he shook his head. “Something’s wrong,” he said aloud. “Something with my set. Maybe I’m not even sending anything. But even if I am, I’m not receiving. All I can get on the screen is some silly TV comedy show.”
Bruce Camaroon lurched to his feet and all but glared at Dick MaGruder on space pick-up.
“What… did… he… say?”
They were all bug-eyeing the screen.
“WHAT… DID… HE… SAY?”
Dick MaGruder said, so softly as hardly to be heard, “He’s receiving some commercial program.”
Bruce spun on Jill Farnsworth. “What, comedy show is on TV at this hour?”
“I… I don’t know...”
“Find out!”
* * * *
The face of the comedian was very serious as he looked into the cameras.
“Folks out there, you’ve all been keeping track of the tragedy that has developed in space. After the complete destruction of the Promised Land, on its way back with its passenger list of refugees from the abandoned Mars Colony, only two children survived, badly injured Jane Barry and brave little Jimmy who managed to navigate his space lifeboat back to within what is now less than a day’s distance away. But then disaster struck again. Jimmy Barry’s radio is on the blink. He hasn’t been able to raise a spaceport on the regular space channels, so that a pilot could bring him in.
“But now, folks, for what we hope will be the good news. This show is going off the air and we are turning our facilities over to the New Denver Spaceport.
“Folks, little Jimmy Barry is picking up this program! Instructions for his landing will be relayed through us. I now solemnly request that all of you who are listening hold a moment of silence for Jimmy and Jane Barry up there alone in deep space. Goodbye all. If you can hear me, Jimmy, good luck!”
His face faded.
Space Pilot Bill Wellingham faded in, his expression urgent.
“Jimmy! Jimmy, can you hear me?”
On the screen in the control room of the spaceport, Jimmy Barry’s youthful face registered shock.
“Uh… uh, yes. Yes sir, I can hear you.”
“All right, Jimmy. Now listen, the first thing you do is reach over to your left. Do you see a little green switch there?”
“The one that says Control Release?”
“That’s right. Good boy. Push it down.”
“Yes, sir.” Then, “I did it.”
“All right. Now that’s all you have to do for a while. I’m switching you over to the Mayo Clinic. Some doctors there are going to send you instructions about your sister. They’ll want to know such things as just what your medical kit contains and so forth.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go get it.”
Bill Wellington turned back to Bruce Camaroon. “That’s it. We’re locked in on Space Lifeboat 2. Activate the computers. I won’t have to brake for another couple of hours.” There was a sheen of sweat on his face. “A couple of hours more and they would have begun to enter the atmosphere. Curtains.”
* * * *
Later, after the clanging ambulance had left with the Barry children, after the crowds of thousands who had swarmed out to the spaceport to see the landing of the space lifeboat had dispersed, Bruce Camaroon and Dick MaGruder stood there alongside the vessel.
“Sharp little kid,” Bruce said.
“Yeah,” Dick said. “I suspect he’ll get by.”
“Suspect? That boy’s the biggest thing since Lindbergh. I doubt if there’s a person in the world, who has a TV or radio set, that doesn’t know who Jimmy and Jane Barry are. Before tomorrow is out, can you visualize the donations, the scholarships, the offers that will pour in on those two?”
“Yeah,” Dick said sourly. “No parents, no resources, no country, eh? They won’t need a country. The world is their country. Come on into this spacecraft. I can’t figure out what could have happened to that radio.”
They entered the small vessel and looked around.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to come almost a quarter of the way from Mars in this,” Bruce grunted. “Sure is confined.”
Dick sat down before the radio and fiddled with it. He looked up, after a time, his face strange.
“What’s the matter?” Bruce said.
Dick MaGruder was on the wide-eyed side. He said, “There’s nothing wrong with this set.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s working perfectly.”
Bruce Camaroon’s face went blank.
Dick said slowly, “He was receiving us all the time. Us and the spaceports at Dundee, Kiev and Peking as well.”
“But…but...”
“Don’t you see?” Dick said in disgust. “We’re the victims of the biggest publicity hoax the world has ever seen. When the Spaceship Promised Land blew, those two kids had no people, no resources, not even a country, as we both pointed out. Now they’re the darlings of all Earth. You know, I’ll bet that girl isn’t even badly burned. He didn’t really need a doctor’s advice. It was all a put-on. If he had really needed a doctor, for his sister’s care, he wouldn’t have pulled the trick.”
“But suppose we reveal that it was a hoax, that the radio was okay all the time?”
Dick looked at him and grunted sour amusement. “Who’d believe you? People love heroes and now they’ve got one. They’d think we repaired the set and were trying to give the kid a hard time. You might wind up getting yourself lynched.”
Bruce said, a certain element of respect in his voice, “Why, that little brat!”
COMPOUNDED INTEREST
AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
This is one of my favorite stories. In the science-fiction field we have various themes that are a challenge. One of them is the “time travel” yarn. It’s something like the “murder taking place in a sealed room” theme in the detective-story genre. This has been done by just about every longtime detective-story writer since Edgar Allan Poe wrote Murders in the Rue Morgue. It would seem practically impossible to get a new departure. So, challenged, they try to come up with a new device. Thus it is with time travel for a science-fiction writer. You simply have to dream up some never-before-used plot on time travel. Obviously, it’s a corker. “If time travel was possible, suppose you went back and killed your own grandfather. Then you would never have been born! So you couldn’t go back and kill your grandfather!”
And so it goes. This story was first bought by Tony Boucher, possibly the best-loved science-fiction editor ever, for the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. It was picked up by Judith Merril for her second issue of The Year’s Best SF. Then, a decade later, she put it in her Best of the Best, in which she included what she thought were the ranking stories of her ten years of anthologies. It has been reprinted and translated many times.
—Mack Reynolds
* * * *
The stranger said in miserable Italian, “I wish to see Sior Marin Goldini on business.”
The concierge’s manner was suspicious. Through the wicket he ran his eyes over the newcomer’s clothing. “On business, Sior?” He hesitated. “Possibly, Sior, you could inform me as to the nature of your business, so that I might inform his Zelenza’s secretary, Vico Letta…” He let his sentence dribble away.
The stranger thought about that. “It pertains,” he said finally, “to gold.” He brought a hand from his pocket and opened it to disclose a half dozen yellow coins.
“A moment, Lustrissimo,” the servant blurted quickly. “Forgive me. Your costume, Lustrissimo…” He let his sentence dribble away again and was gone.
A few moments later he returned to swing the door open wide. “If you please, Lustrissimo, his Zelenza awaits you.”
He led the way down a vaulted hall to the central court, to the left past a fountain well to a heavy outer staircase supported by Gothic arches and sided by a carved parapet. They mounted, turned through a dark doorway and into a poorly lit corridor. The servant stopped and drummed carefully on a thick wooden door. A voice murmured from within and the servant held the door open and then retreated.
Two men were at a rough-hewn oak table. The older was heavy-set, tight of face and cold, and the other tall and thin and ever at ease. The latter bowed gently. He gestured and said, “His Zelenza, the Sior Marin Goldini.”
The stranger attempted a clumsy bow in return, said awkwardly, “My name is… Mister Smith.”
There was a moment of silence which Goldini broke finally by saying, “And this is my secretary, Vico Letta. The servant mentioned gold, Sior, and business.”
The stranger dug into a pocket, came forth with ten coins which he placed on the table before him. Vico Letta picked one up in mild interest and examined it. “I am not familiar with the coinage,” he said.
His master twisted his cold face without humor. “Which amazes me, my good Vico.” He turned to the newcomer. “And what is your wish with these coins, Sior Mister Smith? I confess, this is confusing.”
“I want,” Mister Smith said, “to have you invest the sum for me.”
Vico Letta had idly weighed one of the coins in question on a small scale. He cast his eyes up briefly as he estimated. “The ten would come to approximately forty-nine zecchini, Zelenza,” he murmured.
Marin Goldini said impatiently, “Sior, the amount is hardly sufficient for my house to bother with. The bookkeeping alone—”
The stranger broke in. “Don’t misunderstand. I realize the sum is small. However, I would ask but ten per cent, and would not call for an accounting for… for one hundred years.”
The two Venetians raised puzzled eyebrows. “A hundred years, Sior? Perhaps your command of our language…” Goldini said politely.
“One hundred years,” the stranger said.
“But surely,” the head of the house of Goldini protested, “it is unlikely that any of we three will be alive. If God wants, possibly even the house of Goldini will be a memory only.”
Vico Letta, intrigued, had been calculating rapidly. Now he said, “In one hundred years, at ten per cent compounded annually, your gold would be worth better than 700,000 zecchini.”
“Quite a bit more,” the stranger said firmly.
“A comfortable sum,” Goldini nodded, beginning to feel some of the interest of his secretary. “And during this period, all decisions pertaining to the investment of the amount would be in the hands of my house?”
“Exactly.” The stranger took a sheet of paper from his pocket, tore it in two, and handed one half to the Venetians. “When my half of this is presented to your descendants, one hundred years from today, the bearer will be due the full amount.”
“Done, Sior Mister Smith!” Goldini said. “An amazing transaction, but done. Ten percent in this day is small indeed to ask.”
“It is enough. And now may I make some suggestions? You are perhaps familiar with the Polo family?”
Goldini scowled. “I know Sior Maffeo Polo.”
“And his nephew, Marco?”
Goldini said cautiously, “I understand young Marco was captured by the Genoese. Why do you ask?”
“He is writing a book on his adventures in the Orient. It would be a well of information for a merchant house interested in the East. Another thing. In a few years there will be an attempt on the Venetian government and shortly thereafter a Council of Ten will be formed which will eventually become the supreme power of the republic. Support it from the first and make every effort to have your house represented.”
They stared at him and Marin Goldini crossed himself unobtrusively.
The stranger said, “If you find need for profitable investments beyond Venice I suggest you consider the merchants of the Hanse cities and their soon to be organized League.”
They continued to stare and he said, uncomfortably, “I’ll go now. Your time is valuable.” He went to the door, opened it himself and left.
Marin Goldini snorted. “That liar, Marco Polo.”
Vico said sourly, “How could he have known we were considering expanding our activities into the East? We have discussed it only between ourselves.”
“The attempt on the government,” Marin Goldini said, crossing himself again. “Was he hinting that our intriguing is known? Vico, perhaps we should disassociate ourselves from the conspirators.”
“Perhaps you are right, Zelenza,” Vico muttered. He picked up one of the coins again and examined it, back and front. “There is no such nation,” he grumbled, “but the coin is perfectly minted.” He picked up the torn sheet of paper, held it to the light. “Nor have I ever seen such paper, Zelenza, nor such a strange language, although, on closer examination, it appears to have some similarities to the English tongue.”
* * * *
The House of Letta-Goldini was located now in the San Toma district, an imposing structure through which passed the proceeds of a thousand ventures in a hundred lands.
Riccardo Letta looked up from his desk at his assistant. “Then he really has appeared? Per favore, Lio, bring me the papers pertaining to the, ah, account. Allow me a matter of ten minutes to refresh my memory and then bring the Sior to me.”
The great grandson of Vico Letta, head of the House of Letta-Goldini, came to his feet elegantly, bowed in the sweeping style of his day, said, “Your servant, Sior...” The newcomer bobbed his head in a jerky, embarrassed return of the courtesy, said, “Mister Smith.”
“A chair, Lustrissimo? And now, pray pardon my abruptness. One’s duties when responsible for a house of the magnitude of Letta-Goldini…”
Mister Smith held out a torn sheet of paper. His Italian was abominable. “The agreement made with Marin Goldini, exactly one century ago.”
Riccardo Letta took the paper. It was new, clean and fresh, which brought a frown to his high forehead. He took up an aged, yellowed fragment from before him and placed one against the other. They matched to perfection. “Amazing, Sior, but how can it be that my piece is yellow with age and your own so fresh?”
Mister Smith cleared his throat. “Undoubtedly, different methods have been used to preserve them.”
“Undoubtedly.” Letta relaxed in his chair, placed fingertips together. “And undoubtedly you wish your capital and the interest it has accrued. The amount is a sizable one, Sior; we shall find it necessary to call in various accounts.”
Mister Smith shook his head. “I want to continue on the original basis.”
Letta sat upright. “You mean for another hundred years?”
“Precisely. I have faith in your management, Sior Letta.”
“I see.” Riccardo Letta had not maintained his position in the cutthroat world of Venetian banking and commerce by other than his own ability. It took him only a moment to gather himself. “The appearance of your ancestor, Sior, has given rise to a veritable legend in this house. You are familiar with the details?”
The other nodded, warily.
“He made several suggestions, among them that we support the Council of Ten. We are now represented on the Council, Sior. I need not point out the advantage. He also suggested we investigate the travels of Marco Polo, which we failed to do—but should have. Above all in strangeness was his recommendation that investments be made in the Hanse towns.”
“Well, and wasn’t that a reasonable suggestion?
“Profitable, Sior, but hardly reasonable. Your ancestor appeared in the year 1300 but the Hanseatic League wasn’t formed until 1358.”
The small man, strangely garbed in much the same manner tradition had it the first Mister Smith had appeared, twisted his face wryly. “I am afraid I am in no position to explain, Sior. And now, my own time is limited, and, in view of the present size of my investment, I am going to request you have drawn up a contract more binding than the largely verbal one made with the founders of your house.”
Riccardo Letta rang a small bell on his desk and the next hour was spent with assistants and secretaries. At the end of that period, Mister Smith, a sheaf of documents in his hands, said, “And now may I make a few suggestions?”
Riccardo Letta leaned forward, his eyes narrow. “By all means.”
“Your house will continue to grow and you will have to think in terms of spreading to other nations. Continue to bank the Hanse cities. In the not too far future a remarkable man named Jacques Coeur will become prominent in France. Bring him into the firm as French representative. However, all support should be withdrawn from him in the year 1450.”
Mister Smith stood up, preparatory to leaving. “One warning, Sior Letta. As a fortune grows large, the jackals gather. I suggest the magnitude of this one be hidden and diffused. In this manner temporary setbacks may be suffered through the actions of this prince, or that revolution, but the fortune will continue.”
Riccardo Letta was not an overly religious man, but after the other had left he crossed himself as had his predecessor.
* * * *
There were twenty of them waiting in the year 1500. They sat about a handsome conference table, representatives of half a dozen nations, arrogant of mien, sometimes cruel of face. Waldemar Gotland acted as chairman.
“Your Excellency,” he said in passable English, “may we assume this is your native language?”
Mister Smith was taken aback by the number of them, but, “You may,” he said.
“And that you wish to be addressed as Mister Smith in the English fashion?”
Smith nodded. “That will be acceptable.”
“Then, sir, if you will, your papers. We have named a committee, headed by Emil de Hanse, to examine them as to authenticity.”
Smith handed over his sheaf of papers. “I desired,” he complained, “that this investment be kept secret.”
“And it has been to the extent possible, Excellency. Its size is now fantastic. Although the name Letta-Goldini is still kept, no members of either family still survive. During the past century, Excellency, numerous attempts have been made to seize your fortune.”
“To be expected,” Mister Smith said interestedly. “And what foiled them?”
“Principally the number involved in its management, Excellency. As a representative from Scandinavia, it is hardly to my interest to see a Venetian or German corrupt The Contract.”
Antonio Ruzzini bit out, “Nor to our interest to see Waldemar Gotland attempt it. There has been blood shed more than once in the past century, Zelenza”
The papers were accepted as authentic.
Gotland cleared his throat. “We have reached the point, Excellency, where the entire fortune is yours, and we merely employees. As we have said, attempts have been made on the fortune. We suggest, if it is your desire to continue its growth...”
Mister Smith nodded here.
“…that a stronger contract, which we have taken the liberty to draw up, be adopted.”
“Very well, I’ll look into it. But first, let me give you my instructions.”
There was an intake of breath and they sat back in their chairs.
Mister Smith said, “With the fall of Constantinople to the Turks, the Venetian power will drop. The house must make its center elsewhere.”
There was a muffled exclamation.
Mister Smith went on: “The fortune is now considerable enough that we can afford to take a long view. We must turn our eyes westward. Send a representative of the fortune to Spain. Shortly, the discoveries in the west will open up investment opportunities there. Support men named Hernando Cortez and Francisco Pizarro. In the middle of the century withdraw our investments from Spain and enter them in England, particularly in commerce and manufacture. There will be large land grants in the new world; attempt to have representatives of the fortune gain some of them. There will be confusion at the death of Henry VIII; support his daughter Elizabeth.
“You will find, as industry expands in the northern countries, that it is impractical for a manufacturer to operate where there are literally scores of saints’ days and fiestas. Support such religious leaders as demand a more, ah, puritanical way of life.”
He wound it up. “One other thing. This group is too large. I suggest that only one person from each nation involved be admitted to the secret of the contract.”
* * * *
“Gentlemen,” Mister Smith said in 1600, “turn more to manufacture and commerce in Europe, to agriculture, mining and accumulation of large areas of real estate in the New World. Great fortunes will be made this century in the East; be sure that our various houses are first to profit.”
* * * *
They waited about the conference table in London. The clock, periodically and nervously checked, told them they had a full fifteen minutes before Mister Smith was expected.
Sir Robert took a pinch of snuff, presented an air of nonchalance he did not feel. “Gentlemen,” he said, “frankly I find it difficult to believe the story legend. Come now, after everything has been said, what does it boil down to?”
Pierre Deflage said softly, “It is a beautiful story, messieurs. In the year 1300 a somewhat bedraggled stranger appeared before a Venetian banking house and invested ten pieces of gold, the account to continue for a century. He made certain suggestions that would have tried the abilities of Nostradamus. Since then his descendants have appeared each century at this day and hour and reinvested the amount, never collecting a sou for their own use, but always making further suggestions. Until now, messieurs, we have reached the point where it is by far the largest fortune in the world. I, for instance, am considered the wealthiest man in France.” He shrugged eloquently. “While we all know I am but an employee of The Contract.”
“I submit,” Sir Robert said, “that the story is impossible. It has been one hundred years since our Mr. Smith has supposedly appeared. During that period there have been ambitious men and unscrupulous men in charge of The Contract. They concocted this fantastic tale for their own ends. Gentlemen, there is no Mr. Smith and never was a Mr. Smith. The question becomes, shall we continue the farce, or shall we take measures to divide the fortune and each go our own way?”
A small voice from the doorway said, “If you think that possible, sir, we shall have to work still more to make the contract iron bound. May I introduce myself? You may call me Mr. Smith.”
* * * *
In 1800 he said, “You are to back, for twelve years, the adventurer Bonaparte. In 1812 drop him. You are to invest largely in the new nation, the United States. Send a representative to New York immediately. This is to be a century of revolution and change. Withdraw support from monarchy...” There was a gasp from around the table. “...and support the commercial classes. Back a certain Robert Clive in India. Withdraw all support of Spain in Latin America. In the American civil war to come, back the North.
“Largely, gentlemen, this is to be the century of England. Remember that.” He looked away for a moment, off into an unknown distance. “Next century will be different, but not even I know what lies beyond its middle.”
After he was gone, Amschel Mayer, representative from Vienna, murmured, “Colleagues, have you realized that at last one of The Contract relicts makes sense?”
Lord Windermere scowled at him, making small attempt to disguise his anti-Semitism. “What’d’ya mean by that, sir?”
The international banker opened the heavy box which contained the documents handed down since the day of Goldini. He emerged with a medium-sized gold coin.
“One of the original invested coins has been retained all these centuries, my lord.”
Windermere took it and read. “The United States of America. Why, confound it, man, this is ridiculous. Someone has been a-pranking. The coin couldn’t have existed in Goldini’s day; the colonies proclaimed their independence less than twenty-five years ago.”
Amschel Mayer murmured, “And the number at the bottom of the coin. I wonder if anyone has ever considered that it might be a date.”
Windermere stared at the coin again. “A date? Don’t be an ass! One does not date a coin more than a century ahead of time.”
Mayer rubbed his beardless face with a thoughtful hand. “More than six centuries ahead of time, my lord.”
* * * *
Over cigars and brandy they went into the question in detail. Young Warren Piedmont said, “You gentlemen have the advantage of me. Until two years ago I knew only vaguely of The Contract in spite of my prominence in the American branch of the hierarchy. And, unfortunately, I was not present when Mr. Smith appeared in 1900 as were the rest of you.”
“You didn’t miss a great deal,” Von Borman growled. “Our Mr. Smith, who has all of us tied so tightly with The Contract that everything we own, even to this cigar I hold in my hand, is his—our Mr. Smith is insignificant, all but threadbare.”
“Then there actually is such a person,” Piedmont said.
Albert Marat, the French representative, snorted expressively. “Amazingly enough, messieurs, his description, even to his clothes, is exactly that handed down from Goldini’s day.” He chuckled. “We have one advantage this time.”
Piedmont frowned. “Advantage?”
“Unbeknown to Mr. Smith, we took a photo of him when he appeared in 1900. It will be interesting to compare it with his next appearance.”
Warren Piedmont continued to frown his lack of understanding and Hideka Mitsuki explained. “You have not read the novels of the so clever Mr. H.G. Wells?”
“Never heard of him.”
Smith-Winston, of the British branch, said, “To sum it up, Piedmont, we have discussed the possibility that our Mr. Smith is a time traveler.”
“Time traveler! What in the world do you mean?”
“This is the year 1910. In the past century science has made strides beyond the conception of the most advanced scholars of 1810. What strides will be made in the next fifty years, we can only conjecture. That they will even embrace travel in time is mind-twisting for us, but not impossible.”
“Why fifty years? It will be a full century before—
No. This time Mr. Smith informed us that he is not to wait until the year 2000 for his visit. He is scheduled for July 16, 1960. At that time, friends, I am of the opinion that we shall find what our Mr. Smith has in mind to do with the greatest fortune the world has ever seen.”
Von Borman looked about him and growled, “Has it occurred to you that we eight men are the only persons in the world who even know The Contract exists?” He touched his chest. “In Germany, not even the Kaiser knows that I directly own—in the name of The Contract, of course—or control possibly two thirds of the corporate wealth of the Reich.”
Marat said, “And has it occurred to you that all our Monsieur Smith need do is demand his wealth and we are penniless?”
Smith-Winston chuckled bitterly. “If you are thinking in terms of attempting to do something about it, forget it. For half a millennium the best legal brains of the world have been strengthening The Contract. Wars have been fought over attempts to change it. Never openly, of course. Those who died did so of religion, national destiny, or national honor… But never has the attempt succeeded. The Contract goes on.”
Piedmont said, “To get back to this 1960 appearance. Why do you think Smith will reveal his purpose, if this fantastic belief of yours is correct, that he is a time traveler?”
“It all fits in, old man,” Smith-Winston told him. “Since Goldini’s time he has been turning up in clothing not too dissimilar to what we wear today. He speaks English— with an American accent. The coins he first gave Goldini were American double-eagles minted in this century. Sum it up. Our Mr. Smith desired to create an enormous fortune. He has done so and I believe that in 1960 we shall learn his purpose.”
He sighed and went back to his cigar. “I am afraid I shall not see it. Fifty years is a long time.”
They left the subject finally and went to another almost as close to their hearts. Von Borman growled, “I contend that if The Contract is to be served, Germany needs a greater place in the sun. I intend to construct a Berlin to Baghdad railroad and to milk the East of its treasures.”
Marat and Smith-Winston received his words coldly. “I assure you, monsieur,” Marat said, “we shall have to resist any such plans on your part. The Contract can best be served by maintaining the status quo; there is no room for German expansion. If you persist in this, it will mean war and you recall what Mr. Smith prophesied. In case of war, we are to withdraw support from Germany and, for some reason, Russia, and support the allies. We warn you, Borman.”
