The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack. Mack Reynolds

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      “Florida,” Junior said. “We owned it originally and we’ve never signed it away.”

      “Do you realize that half a billion people now live in Florida? Do you realize how much money the citizens of this country have invested in the Florida peninsula in the past three centuries? Why the bridge to Havana alone—

      We’re going to make it a toll bridge,” Fuller Bull said with satisfaction.

      “And we’re going to confiscate every house, every orange tree, every motel, in the state,” Charlie Horse added. “I get Miami.”

      “Miami?” Mortimer Dowling repeated, trying to hold on to reality.

      “That’s my share,” Charlie Horse told him.

      “Good Heavens,” Mortimer Dowling said.

      “We’re going to make every white man move out of the state,” Charlie Horse wound up, with satisfaction.

      Mortimer Dowling blurted, “You’ll never get away with this. It’s impossible.”

      Fuller Bull said darkly, “If necessary, we’ll take our case to the Reunited Nations.”

      “The RN?” Mortimer Dowling said in despair. “We wouldn’t stand a chance. There’s not a country in the RN that hasn’t already cleared itself of every taint of colonialism and imperialism. Why, the very expressions have become bad words.”

      The three Seminoles were smug.

      Mortimer Dowling looked at his watch. “See here, gentlemen, let’s not be hasty about this.”

      “So who’s being hasty?” Junior said. “We’ve waited a hundred years for this moment.”

      “Well, see here, we needn’t rush into things. It’s time for lunch. Will you gentlemen be my guests? Ha ha, on Uncle Sam, of course. Do you realize this will make quite a precedent? In my fifteen years as head of this department, I’ve never before had the occasion to submit an expense account.”

      The three Seminoles exchanged glances.

      “Why not?” said Junior.

      * * * *

      In the morning, Mortimer Dowling opened one bloodshot eye and said, “Miss Fullbright, please go away. I’m dying.”

      Millie said, “Take your feet off the desk. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

      “No. Go away. I need rest.”

      “Just look at yourself,” Millie said disgustedly. “The first time in fifteen years at this job you get something to do, and what happens? You blow up. Instead of trying to figure out an answer, you go get yourself stoned. Absolutely stoned.”

      Mortimer Dowling grunted. He pointed with his finger at an official looking document lying on the desk. “Do you see that, Miss Fullbright? One of the most brilliant pieces of work done by an American official in the past century.”

      “Heavens to Betsy, the treaty. And all three of their signatures on it. How in the world did you ever—”

      Mortimer Dowling allowed himself a self-satisfied leer. “Miss Fullbright, haven’t you ever heard the old saying The only good Indian is a dead—”

      Millie’s hand went to her mouth. “Mr. Dowling, you mean…you put the slug on all three of those poor Seminoles? But…but how about the remaining fifty-five of them? You can’t possibly kill them all!”

      “Let me finish,” Mortimer Dowling growled. “I was about to say, The only good Indian is a dead drunk Indian. If you think I’m hanging over, you should see Charlie Horse and his wisenheimer pals. Those redskins couldn’t handle firewater back in the old days when the Dutch did them out of Manhattan with a handful of beads and a gallon of applejack and they still can’t. Now, go away and do a crossword puzzle, or something.”

      NO RETURN FROM ELBA

      AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

      Twenty years ago the short-short story, usually about a thousand words in length, was more prevalent than it is now, for reasons unknown to me. I always liked the form. The idea, of course, is to have a snap ending that surprises or amuses the reader. This first appeared in Fantastic magazine in 1953. Then editor, Howard Browne, who is now one of Hollywood’s top scriptwriters, liked it so much that he paid the unheard of, in those days, rate of four cents a word.

      —Mack Reynolds

      * * * *

      The Omnipotent entered and answered their salute as he had in the old days—as though there were still fleets under his command instead of this single space scout—planets still under his thumb, instead of the single tiny asteroid which lay before them.

      His voice was still curt, demanding of unthinking obedience. “How long will it be now?”

      “Perhaps an hour, Omnipotence.” It was Klier who spoke; Klier the faithful; Klier, his hatchet man, his enforcer, during the years of power; Klier of the cold, vacant eyes.

      The Omnipotent stared into the viewplate, his hands clasped behind his back. They knew—but he didn’t know they knew—of his life-long fascination with the Bonaparte story. They recognized the Napoleonic stance, these last three of his followers, but their faces were blank.

      He said, finally, “Voss, how big did you say this asteroid was?”

      “A diameter, sire, of 1.784 miles.” Voss alone wore civilian dress. Voss the mental wizard, the brain behind the throne.

      “Ah, Voss, how accurate you are. Too bad you were not so accurate in estimating their military potential. Yes, too bad.” There was a sneer in his voice, but he controlled himself. It would not do, at this late date, to antagonize them. For ten years it had been his privilege to ride roughshod over all, even his closest intimates, Klier, Voss, and Mannderman. But you never knew; even Ney, the incomparable Marshal Ney, had turned traitor in the time of stress.

      So he said, “Gentlemen, you must forgive me. Your hearts are as heavy as my own.” It was an unwonted concession.

      Klier extended a hand, palm upward. “Sire—” he said. The others remained silent, but their faces reflected their thoughts. Thoughts of only yesteryear. So short a time ago.

      Later, when the supplies and equipment they had brought him were landed, the three gathered about him for the farewell.

      The Omnipotent had been looking expressionlessly about the asteroid as they worked. It was very small. He muttered softly, “But there was Elba, and history repeats itself.”

      He straightened and faced them squarely. “There is no need to prolong this. You three will proceed to Venus and surrender. Our foe will not extradite. They want only me.”

      The three stood stiffly, listening, saying nothing.

      “You will be humble on Venus—retiring—almost regretful and repentant. You will disappear from public view and interest.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ