Time Travel Omnibus, page 335
“Ha—a liar like me!” Saturnly laughed, but a shadow of uneasiness flickered across his face.
Mr. Whitlow had obviously used the fifteen minutes for thinking. Lingering puzzlement and cold anger were the apparent results. The latter predominated.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said, “but there’s no longer any possibility of an understanding between us. Your world is a war world like all the rest, except that it masks it in a peculiarly repellent fashion.”
“That ain’t war,” said Saturnly gaily. His exuberance in situations like this perpetually amazed Neddar. “Sit down, Mr. Whitlow. That’s just Coldefinc conducting its legitimate business enterprises.”
“Coldefinc?”
“Sure. Columbian Defense, Inc.”
“Don’t think to deceive me by any such ridiculous rigmarole,” said Whitlow venomously. “It’s obvious that, whatever you call yourself, you’ve seized supreme political power in your country.”
“Mr. Whitlow, you make me angry,” said Saturnly genially. “I’m sorry, but you do. I’m a respectable businessman.”
“But you conduct wars. Only governments can maintain an army and navy.”
“That’s right,” said Saturnly genially. “Come to think of it, they did maintain an army and navy—until we bought ’em up.”
“But it’s impossible!” Whitlow was beginning to argue. “In all worlds I have visited, it is the governments and the governments alone that conduct wars.”
“You amaze me,” Neddar interjected. “Government is the older form of social organization, business the newer. According to all natural expectations, the newer form should gradually absorb all or most of the activities of the older form.”
“Primitive,” Saturnly confirmed.
“But don’t you have any government at all?” Whitlow demanded.
“Sure,” said Saturnly. “Only it doesn’t do anything except make things legal.”
“An empty sham!” said Whitlow. “How, without armed forces, can government enforce the laws it makes?”
“By prestige alone,” Neddar answered. “There was a time when religion clubbed people into becoming converts. When the center of social organization shifted elsewhere, religion had to change its methods—rather to its advantage, I believe.
“Moreover,” he added gravely, “I thought you were an enemy of the exercise of force by government, as in war.”
Whitlow sat back. For a moment he had nothing to say.
“Government incorporates us, we do the rest,” Saturnly concluded. “The point is, Mr. Whitlow, as I’ve been trying to tell you, that Coldefinc is a legitimate business enterprise, working hard every minute to satisfy its customers, to make money for its stockholders, and to pay its ungrateful employees a lot higher wage than they deserve.”
“Customers?” Whitlow mumbled. “Stock—?”
“Sure, customers. We sell ’em defense. That’s how we got started. Government was slipping. Crime was on the up. There were lots of disorders. There had just been a big, inconclusive war and everybody was dissatisfied. They didn’t want any army or navy, but they did want protection. O.K., we sold it to ’em.”
“Now I understand!” Whitlow interjected, a whiplash quality to his voice, his eyes burning. “We had it in our world. You’re just the same thing, grown to monstrous proportions. Racketeers!”
“Mr. Whitlow!” Saturnly was on his feet. Neddar lightwrote, “Watch yourself!” but Saturnly didn’t even see it. “You will make me mad. Every step of the way Coldefinc has conformed to law. Should I read you the Supreme Court decision that because it’s any man’s right to carry arms, it’s all right for him to hire somebody to do it for him? Why, we’re so clean we haven’t done any strikebreaking—at least for outsiders. How can anything be a racket if it’s completely legal?”
Neddar lightwrote, “Excuse me. I thought you were going to say something else. That was perfect.”
Saturnly sat down. “To continue where I left off at. We sold ’em defense. First, private individuals and other businesses, especially those with racketeers—we had ’em here too, Mr. Whitlow—on their necks. Then small communities that were tired of police departments that did nothing but graft. We advertised—dignified. We expanded—and so we could sell our product cheaper. Then came a war scare.”
To give him a breather, Neddar chipped in with, “Meanwhile, similar developments were taking place in all fields of social activity. Forrelinc—Foreign Relations, Inc.—absorbed all but the purely formal activities of the diplomatic service. Social-service companies vied as to which could sell its customers the cheapest and happiest ways of life.”
“Then came a war scare,” Saturnly resumed determinedly. “People howled for our product. Our stocks boomed. We increased our plant—for years we’d been hiring away the best army and navy officers; now we bought the entire personnel and equipment from the government dirt cheap and used what we could of it. We started a monster sales campaign—this time to include neighboring countries. We—”
Whitlow nervously waved for time to ask a question. His face was a study in confusions and uncertainties.
“Do I understand you right,” he faltered incredulously. “You’ve really organized war—”
“Defense.”
“—on a business basis? You sell it like any other product? You issue stock that fluctuates in value according to the failure or success of your activities?”
“Correct, Mr. Whitlow. That’s why you didn’t see any war headlines. It’s all on the financial page.”
“And you don’t draft soldiers—”
“Operatives.”
“—but hire them just like any other business?”
“Absolutely. Though a front-liner usually has to work his way up through other jobs. First in a munitions factory, so he learns all about our weapons. Next, transport and distribution, so he gets that end of it. Then maybe he gets a chance at a front-line job and the big money.”
“You mean to say you pay your front-line soldiers—”
“Operatives.”
“—more than anyone else?”
“Naturally.”
“But that’s detestable,” said Whitlow righteously, as if seizing any opportunity to maintain resentment. “In my world there are soldiers, but at least we don’t try to gild the dungheap by paying them high wages.”
“What?” Saturnly asked. “You mean in your world an operative doesn’t get as much as a factory hand? Or doesn’t anyone make any money?”
“No,” Whitlow replied angrily, “a factory worker is well paid. We have wage scales governing such things.”
“But that’s terrible,” said Saturnly. He seemed shocked. “A front-liner has to have all kinds of skills, and besides, it’s dangerous work, as dangerous as mining—maybe more—maybe almost as risky as deep-sea diving.”
Whitlow wilted. He looked dazed. “Then those men that rushed in here a while back—they really were talking about a strike by front-line operatives?”
“Sure.”
“But how can you allow such a thing? Surely it will enable the enemy—” Whitlow looked up, his eyes widening. “Who is your enemy?”
“Right now it is the Fatherland Cartel,” Saturnly replied breezily. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Whitlow—it’s just a little sit-down strike the boys are having. They’ll hold the line if they have to. The only bad thing is that it’ll slow up the big push—for a while,” he added cryptically.
“Then you’re actually engaged in fighting a war—a real war? It’s a business—but at the same time it’s war?”
“Of course, Mr. Whitlow,” Saturnly replied patiently. “We try to defend our customers without fighting, but if we have to, we fight. Coldefinc always delivers.”
“And that war is like any other war? Battles, invasions, encirclement and annihilation of the enemy army?”
“Liquidation of his plant,” Saturnly corrected. “Though of course we’re all businessmen and try to avoid useless waste.” He airily waved a hand. “Oh, yes, those things happen, but they aren’t the really important part of the war. The important part is the underlying financial situation.”
“Yes?” A sudden new interest lighted Whitlow’s eyes. Neddar noted it, and his tense watchfulness was broken so far as his fingers were concerned. He lightwrote, “Concentrate on this angle. You’re going great. Just don’t get excited.”
Saturnly leaned forward, beaming. “Mr. Whitlow, I know I can trust you. You’re not of this world, and what’s happening in it doesn’t mean anything to you.” He paused. “Mr. Whitlow, it’s a dead secret, but in a few days Coldefinc will have the Fatherland Cartel by the tail. Through disguised holding companies in neutral countries we’ve been buying up stock in the component organizations of the cartel. The big push is mainly to scare a few people into letting go their shares. Pretty soon we’ll have more than fifty per cent, and then, Mr. Whitlow, this war will be over like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Whitlow goggled. “You mean all you have to do is to get a controlling interest in the enemy organization?”
“Sure.”
“And the enemy will submit to it?”
“What else can they do? Business is business.”
“And you won’t have to invade or annihilate them? Untold killing and destruction will be avoided? You won’t lose many of your operatives?”
Saturnly shrugged. “Not more than in normal times.”
“Mr. Saturnly!” Whitlow stood up. The new interest had grown to a consuming, fanatic flame. “I have a proposal to make to you. Could you do that sort of thing for my world?” He held out his hand as if he were giving it to Saturnly.
“Um-m-m.” Saturnly leaned back, frowning. Neddar rejoiced at the way he masked his triumph with an air of reluctance. “I’d have to think it over. It’s a big proposition, Mr. Whitlow.”
“I’d provide the means of entry,” the pacifist continued rapidly. “You could bring across whatever you’d need in the way of operatives and . . . er . . . plant.”
“I dunno,” said Saturnly dubiously. “Is there any business at all in your world, or does government run everything? If there isn’t, it’ll be pretty hard for us to get an in.”
“Oh, there’s business, all right,” Whitlow reassured him. “Though at present somewhat submerged.”
“And are there any neutral countries? Or are they all in the war?”
“There are still a few neutrals.”
Saturnly thought. Whitlow hung on his reactions.
“Well, we’d have to go slow at first,” Saturnly finally said ruminatively. “There’d be the matter of sales research, sizing up likely prospects, setting up pioneer offices, and also incorporating firms to front for us—that’s where the neutral countries would come in handy.” He began to warm up. “Then we build up plant and personnel—the latter mixed, from both worlds. Then feeler campaigns, trial balloons, preliminary advertising and promotion. With all that set, we really start in.” He turned to Whitlow. “Of course, if we get that far, there’s no doubt of our ultimate success, because we’ll be all business and they’ll be just maybe half business and half government—an awful jumble.”
Whitlow nodded eagerly. Neddar lightwrote: “You’ve got him, J.S.!”
Saturnly laid his hand authoritatively on the table. “First we sell the neutral countries—they’ll want protection the worst way, because they won’t know which side is going to jump them first. At the same time we start hiring out to do small jobs for the warring nations—we pose as kind of war-industrial specialists. Maybe the neutral countries get invaded and we have a chance to show our stuff. Maybe the small jobs grow into big ones. Maybe both.” He was really warmed up now. “Either way, our stocks boom. We put in more plant, increase personnel, start a major sales campaign. People begin to have more confidence in us than in their government armies. We pick one of the big powers—whichever is slipping, it doesn’t matter which—and buy it out. The other side—we outorganize ’em, outbuy ’em, hit ’em hard on both the financial and operational fronts. And then—”
The phone purred. Automatically, Saturnly snatched it up and bawled into it, “Yes?” A wait, while Whitlow swayed forward in palefaced, hypnotized eagerness. Then in a roar, “What do you mean bothering me with trifles like the strike being called off when I’m fixed with something important?” Suddenly a wicked smile fattened his face. “Oh, it’s you, Dulger? You don’t like me sending whisky to those front-liners? Well, what would you want if you were out there in all that mud?” From beyond the walls, making them tremble faintly, came suddenly a many-voiced rumbling. It kept on. “Hear that, Dulger? It’s the big push. Oh, you’re going to indict me for corrupting my workers? Good. Good! Maybe some day when you start a real man he-man’s union, I’ll join it.”
He turned back. His lips formed, “And then—”
But there had been time for his previous words to ferment in Whitlow’s emotion-drunk soul. The pacifist’s face was a mask of fanatic ecstasy, and his voice was hoarsely vibrant against the grumbling guns as he finished for him: “And then, Mr. Saturnly, will come the millennium to which the nobler side of mankind has always aspired, that Utopia of perfect and gentle brotherhood which your world will so soon attain and, which you will ultimately bring to mine, that purified existence from which all hatred and strife, all greed and war, have been forever banished. I refer, Mr. Saturnly, to that most precious of all blessings—peace.”
“WHAT!” Slowly Saturnly came to his feet, crouching bearlike. Slowly his bulging neck suffused with red, with purple. In vain Neddar plucked, tugged, jerked at his sleeve, desperately lightwrote: “Don’t, J.S. Don’t! DON’T!” resorted to even more drastic efforts to shut him up. He might as well have tried to quiet a god. In the rapidly shifting excitement, the truth-telling mechanism buried deep in Saturnly had been set in motion and now could no more be stopped than if Saturnly had been Juggernaut’s car.
“You . . . you talk to John Saturnly of PEACE when you know War is his business?” He loomed over the astounded pacifist like a prehistoric idol. His voice boomed from the walls. “You’d have me wreck a world organization that I built up with these hands? You’d have me throw my customers to the dogs? Bankrupt my stockholders? Fire millions of loyal employees out into the world where they would drift around unemployed and help start a real mess? No, Mr. Whitlow, I’ll gladly help you with your proposition, but you must understand that if Coldefinc tackles your world, it will be war from then on—forever!” He sucked up a great breath and drew himself erect. “Maybe, Mr. Whitlow, you didn’t read the motto over the door when you came in. ‘When there are bigger wars, Coldefinc will wage them!’ ”
The pacifist shrank back in horror, shock, and fear.
“I . . . you—” he mumbled brokenly. Then it all came out in a whimpering rush. “I won’t have anything to do with you, you fiend!”
“Oh, yes, you will!” Saturnly came around the table, crouching. “You’re going to show us how to cross time.” He kept coming. The pacifist was wedged in a corner and fumbling with his coat. “We’ve been nice to you, Mr. Whitlow, but now that’s over. I don’t like people who try to go back on me.” Whitlow’s hands came out with what looked like a small gray egg. He fingered it in a panicky rhythm, and his face went blank as if he were desperately trying to concentrate on some thought. Saturnly closed in. “We’re going to have your secret, Mr. Whitlow, whether you get anything for it or not.” Then, suddenly, “Stop him, Neddar! Stop him! That way! No, that way!”
Both men dove, Saturnly with a bearlike lunge, Neddar with an incredibly pantherlike leap. They clutched air, scrambled up, looked around. Mr. Whitlow was gone.
For a long while nothing was said or done. Then, slowly, heavily, Saturnly walked back to the desk and sat down and pressed his face in his hands.
“He faded,” said Neddar in a voice that likewise faded. “He got misty and went curving off . . . at an increasing tangent . . . toward an alternate future—”
Then his rapierlike anger flashed out. His eyes seemed to spark and his black beard to crackle with the electricity of it. He whirled on Saturnly.
“You big, honest, imbecile! How you ever got this far, even with me to do your conniving for you, I don’t know. You had him sold. We had worlds within our grasp, worlds ripe for exploitation and conquest, worlds for sale at bargain prices, and you had to go sincere and scare him off—forever. Oh, you bumbling ape!”
“I know.” Saturnly pressed his face harder. Neddar twisted his features in one last bitter grimace, then tossed it off, sighed, and almost smiled.
Saturnly peeped at him guiltily between thick fingers.
“You know, Neddy,” he said softly, “maybe in a way it’s just as well this didn’t go any farther. You know how I think—always while I’m doing something else. Well, while I was selling this guy I was thinking of something very different. You know, Neddy, our world is maybe kind of peculiar. We rate business and money and financial things above everything. They’re our ultimates. If something’s decided in a business way, it never occurs to us to try to go around it or look for any other answer. Maybe it isn’t that way in the other worlds. I know it’s hard to imagine, but maybe they wouldn’t think of business as the ultimate. Maybe the people in those other words are sort of different . . . sort of crazy—” His voice changed, took on a note almost of relief, as he finished, “At least, if they’re anything like that Whitlow guy!”
THE END.
THE HOMELESS ONE
A.E. Coppard
NEAR THE NORTHEASST CORNER OF THE COUNTY OF HUNTINGTON LIES a small town which once nourished an asylum for the care, retention, or reclamation of the possessed, in other words a madhouse, and within its walls dwelt an old man who had no name. So long had he been immured there that no one remembered his coming; so aged was he that no kindred were left to care for him; so quiet and well-behaved that he might have been proclaimed as a model of madhouse welfare. No record existed of when, how or why he was so incarcerated, he himself did not know, he was there, he had always been there. Where he came from, how brought, to whom he belonged, were alike unknown. A slight tang of foreignness hung about him, hard to define, and it was his lunatic whim to claim that he was now a ghost, having once upon a time hung himself because of some wickedness he had done in the far-back years. Poor old ninny! That he had now no name was his special grievance; it had been stolen from him—so he averred—in the far-back ages long ago, but if pressed about the circumstances of this misappropriation he at times grew anguished and demented, at other times he would be cunning and defensive.
