The Mack Reynolds Megapack. Mack Reynolds

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СКАЧАТЬ If they allowed him to call it off today, they’d talk themselves into it again before the week was through.

      Besides, already Joe was beginning to feel the comfortable, pleasurable, warm feeling that came to him on occasions like this.

      He said, “You’re sure this guy talks American, eh?”

      Warren Brett-James said, “Quite sure. He is a student of history.”

      “And he won’t think it’s funny I talk American to him, eh?”

      “He’ll undoubtedly be intrigued.”

      They pulled up before a large apartment building that overlooked the area once known as Wilmington.

      Joe was coolly efficient now. He pulled out the automatic, held it down below his knees and threw a shell into the barrel. He eased the hammer down, thumbed on the safety, stuck the weapon back in his belt and beneath the jacketlike garment he wore.

      He said, “Okay See you guys later.” He left them and entered the building.

      An elevator—he still wasn’t used to their speed in this era—whooshed him to the penthouse duplex occupied by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.

      There were two persons in the reception room but they left on Joe’s arrival, without bothering to look at him more than glancingly.

      He spotted the screen immediately and went over and stood before it.

      The screen lit and revealed a heavy-set, dour of countenance man seated at a desk. He looked into Joe Prantera’s face, scowled and said something.

      Joe said, “Joseph Salviati-Prantera to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.”

      The other’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Indeed,” he said. “In Amer-English?”

      Joe nodded.

      “Enter,” the other said.

      A door had slid open on the other side of the room. Joe walked through it and into what was obviously an office. Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a desk. There was only one other chair in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it and remained standing.

      Citizen Temple-Tracy said, “What can I do for you?”

      Joe looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he reached down to his belt and brought forth the .45 automatic. He moistened his lips.

      Joe said softly, “You know what this here is?”

      Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon. “It’s a handgun, circa, I would say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What in the world are you doing with it?”

      Joe said, very slowly, “Chief, in the line you’re in these days you needa heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise, Chief, you’re gunna wind up in some gutter with a lotta holes in you. What I’m doin’, I’m askin’ for a job. You need a good man knows how to handle wunna these, Chief.”

      Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy eyed him appraisingly. “Perhaps,” he said, “you are right at that. In the near future, I may well need an assistant knowledgeable in the field of violence. Tell me more about yourself. You surprise me considerably.”

      “Sure, Chief. It’s kinda a long story, though. First off, I better tell you you got some bad enemies, Chief. Two guys special, named Brett-James and Doc Reston-Farrell. I think one of the first jobs I’m gunna hafta do for you, Chief, is to give it to those two.”

      ADAPTATION

      Forward

      Hardly had man solved his basic problems on the planet of his origin than he began to fumble into space. Barely a century had elapsed in the exploration of the Solar System than he began to grope for the stars.

      And suddenly, with an all but religious zeal, mankind conceived its fantasy dream of populating the galaxy. Never in the history of the race had fervor reached such a peak and held so long. The question of why was seemingly ignored. Millions of Earth-type planets beckoned and with a lemming-like desperation humanity erupted into them.

      But the obstacles were frightening in their magnitude. The planets and satellites of Sol had proven comparatively tractable and those that were suited to man-life were quickly brought under his dominion. But there, of course, he had the advantage of proximity. The time involved in running back and forth to the home planet was meaningless and all Earth’s resources could be thrown into each problem’s solving.

      But a planet a year removed in transportation or even communication? Ay! this was another thing and more than once a million colonists were lost before the Earthlings could adapt to new climates, new flora and fauna, new bacteria—or to factors which the most far out visionary had never fancied, perhaps the lack of something never before missed.

      So, mad with the lust to seed the universe with his kind, men sought new methods. To a hundred thousand worlds they sent smaller colonies, as few as a hundred pioneers apiece, and there marooned them, to adapt, if adapt they could.

      For a millennium each colony was left to its own resources, to conquer the environment or to perish in the effort.

      A thousand years was sufficient. Invariably it was found, on those planets where human life survived at all, man slipped back during his first two or three centuries into a state of barbarism. Then slowly began to inch forward again. There were exceptions and the progress on one planet never exactly duplicated that on another, however the average was surprisingly close to both nadir and zenith, in terms of evolution of society.

      In a thousand years it was deemed by the Office of Galactic Colonization such pioneers had largely adjusted to the new environment and were ready for civilization, industrialization and eventual assimilation into the rapidly evolving Galactic Commonwealth.

      Of course, even from the beginning, new and unforeseen problems manifested themselves…

      —from Man In Antiquity

      published in Terra City, Sol

      Galactic Year 3,502.

      I.

      The Co-ordinator said, “I suppose I’m an incurable romantic. You see, I hate to see you go.” Academician Amschel Mayer was a man in early middle years; Dr. Leonid Plekhanov, his contemporary. They offset one another; Mayer thin and high-pitched, his colleague heavy, slow and dour. Now they both showed their puzzlement.

      The Co-ordinator added, “Without me.”

      Plekhanov kept his massive face blank. It wasn’t for him to be impatient with his superior. Nevertheless, the ship was waiting, stocked and crewed.

      Amschel Mayer said, “Certainly a last minute chat can’t harm.” Inwardly he realized the other man’s position. Here was a dream coming true, and Mayer and his fellows were the last thread that held the Co-ordinator’s control over the dream. When they left, half a century would pass before he could again check developments.

      The Co-ordinator became more businesslike. “Yes,” he said, “but I have more in mind than a chat. Very briefly, I wish to go over your assignment. Undoubtedly redundant, but if there are questions, no matter how seemingly trivial, this is the last opportunity to air them.”

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