Short Fiction, Mack Reynolds [best book reader txt] 📗

Jerry Kennedy, attired as was his superior in fur trimmed Genoese robes, signaled one of the servants for a refilling of his glass and shrugged.

“I suppose it’s partly our own fault,” he said lightly. He sipped the wine, made a mental note to buy up the rest of this vintage for his cellars before young Mannerheim or someone else did so.

“Our fault!” Mayer glared.

The old boy was getting decreasingly tolerant as the years went by, Kennedy decided. He said soothingly, “You sent Peter and Fred over there to speed up local development. Well, that’s what they’re doing.”

“Are you insane!” Mayer squirmed in his chair. “Did you read this radiogram? They’ve squeezed out all my holdings in rubber, the fastest growing industry on the western continent. Why, millions are involved. Who do they think they are?”

Kennedy put down his glass and chuckled. “See here, Amschel, we’re developing this planet by encouraging free competition. Our contention is that under such a socioeconomic system the best men are brought to the lead and benefit all society by the advances they make.”

“So! What has this got to do with MacDonald and Buchwald betraying my interests?”

“Don’t you see? Using your own theory, you have been set back by someone more efficiently competitive. Fred and Peter saw an opening and, in keeping with your instructions, moved in. It’s just coincidence that the rubber they took over was your property rather than some Genoese operator’s. If you were open to a loss there, then if they hadn’t taken over someone else could have. Possibly Baron Leonar or even Russ.”

“That reminds me,” Mayer snapped, “our Honorable Russ is getting too big for his britches in petroleum. Did you know he’s established a laboratory in Amerus? Has a hundred or more chemists working on new products.”

“Fine,” Kennedy said.

“Fine! What do you mean? Dean is our man in petroleum.”

“Look here, if Russ can develop the industry even faster than Mike Dean, let him go ahead. That’s all to our advantage.”

Mayer leaned forward and tapped his assistant emphatically on the knee. “Look here, yourself, Jerry Kennedy. At this stage we don’t want things getting out of our hands. A culture is in the hands of those who control the wealth; the means of production, distribution, communication. Theirs is the real power. I’ve made a point of spacing our men about the whole planet. Each specializes, though not exclusively. Gunther is our mining man, Dean heads petroleum, MacDonald shipping, Buchwald textiles, Rykov steel, and so forth. As fast as this planet can assimilate we push new inventions, new techniques, often whole new sciences, into use. Meanwhile, you and I sit back and dominate it all through that strongest of power mediums, finance.”

Jerry Kennedy nodded. “I wouldn’t worry about old man Russ taking over Dean’s domination of oil, though. Mike’s got the support of all the Pedagogue’s resources behind him. Besides, we’ve got to let these Genoese get into the act. The more the economy expands, the more capable men we need. As it is, I think we’re already spread a little too thin.”

Amschel Mayer had dropped the subject. He was reading the radiogram again and scowling his anger. “Well, this cooks MacDonald and Buchwald. I’ll break them.”

His assistant raised his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

“I’m not going to put up with my subordinates going against my interests.”

“In this case, what can you do about it? Business is business.”

“You hold quite a bit of their paper, don’t you?”

“You know that. Most of our team’s finances funnel through my hands.”

“We’ll close them out. They’ve become too obsessed with their wealth. They’ve forgotten why the Pedagogue was sent here. I’ll break them, Jerry. They’ll come crawling. Perhaps I’ll send them back to the Pedagogue. Make them stay aboard as crew.”

Kennedy shrugged. “Well, Peter MacDonald’s going to hate that. He’s developed into quite a high liver⁠—gourmet food, women, one of the swankiest estates on the eastern continent.”

“Ha!” Mayer snorted. “Let him go back to ship’s rations and crew’s quarters.”

A servant entered the lushly furnished room and announced, “Honorable Gunther calling on the Honorables Mayer and Kennedy.”

Martin Gunther hurried into the room, for once his calm ruffled. “On the western continent,” he blurted. “Dean and Rosetti. The Temple got them, they’ve been burned as witches.”

Amschel Mayer shot to his feet. “That’s the end,” he swore shrilly. “Only in the west have the barons held out. I thought we’d slowly wear them down, take over their powers bit by bit. But this does it. This means we fight.”

He spun to Kennedy. “Jerry, make a trip out to the Pedagogue. You know the extent of Genoa’s industrial progress. Seek out the most advanced weapons this technology could produce.”

Kennedy came to his own feet, shocked by Gunther’s news. “But, Amschel, do you think it’s wise to precipitate an intercontinental war? Remember, we’ve been helping to industrialize the west, too. It’s almost as advanced as our continent. Their war potential isn’t negligible.”

“Nevertheless,” Mayer snapped, “we’ve got to break the backs of the barons and the Temple monks. Get messages off to Baron Leonar and young Mannerheim, to Russ and Olderman. We’ll want them to put pressure on their local politicians. What we need is a continental alliance for this war.”

Gunther said, “Should I get in touch with Rykov? He’s still over there.”

Mayer hesitated. “No,” he said. “We’ll keep Nick informed but he ought to remain where he is. We’ll still want our men in the basic positions of power after we’ve won.”

“He might get hurt,” Gunther scowled. “They might get him too, and we’ve only got six team members left now.”

“Nonsense, Nick Rykov can take care of himself.”

Jerry Kennedy was upset. “Are you sure about this war, chief? Isn’t a conflict of this size apt to hold up our overall plans?”

“Of course not,” Mayer scoffed. “Man makes his greatest progress under pressure. A major war will unite the nations of both the western continent and this one as nothing else could. Both will push