The Mack Reynolds Megapack. Mack Reynolds

bent forward and thumped his right index finger twice on the table. “The bacterium of hate—a new strain—has found the human race unprotected from its disease. We had thought our vaccines immunized us.”

      “What’s that suppose to mean?”

      Brett-James took up the ball again. “Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander, Caesar?”

      Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.

      “Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin?”

      “Sure I heard of Hitler and Stalin,” Joe growled. “I ain’t stupid.”

      The other nodded. “Such men are unique. They have a drive…a drive to power which exceeds by far the ambitions of the average man. They are genii in their way, Mr. Prantera, genii of evil. Such a genius of evil has appeared on the current scene.”

      “Now we’re getting somewheres,” Joe snorted. “So you got a guy what’s a little ambitious, like, eh? And you guys ain’t got the guts to give it to him. Okay. What’s in it for me?”

      The two of them frowned, exchanged glances. Reston-Farrell said, “You know, that is one aspect we had not considered.”

      Brett-James said to Joe Prantera, “Had we not, ah, taken you at the time we did, do you realize what would have happened?”

      “Sure,” Joe grunted. “I woulda let old Al Rossi have it right in the guts, five times. Then I woulda took the plane back to Chi.”

      Brett-James was shaking his head. “No. You see, by coincidence, a police squad car was coming down the street just at that moment to arrest Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended. As I understand Californian law of the period, your life would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.”

      Joe winced. It didn’t occur to him to doubt their word.

      Reston-Farrell said, “As to reward, Mr. Prantera, we have already told you there is ultra-abundance in this age. Once this task has been performed, we will sponsor your entry into present day society. Competent psychiatric therapy will soon remove your present—”

      “Waita minute, now. You figure on gettin’ me candled by some head shrinker, eh? No thanks, Buster. I’m going back to my own—”

      Brett-James was shaking his head again. “I am afraid there is no return, Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but in one direction, with the flow of the time stream. There can be no return to your own era.”

      Joe Prantera had been rocking with the mental blows he had been assimilating, but this was the final haymaker. He was stuck in this squaresville of a world.

      * * * *

      Joe Prantera on a job was thorough.

      Careful, painstaking, competent.

      He spent the first three days of his life in the year 2133 getting the feel of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell had been appointed to work with him. Joe didn’t meet any of the others who belonged to the group which had taken the measures to bring him from the past. He didn’t want to meet them. The fewer persons involved, the better.

      He stayed in the apartment of Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right, Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor. Brett-James evidently had something to do with the process that had enabled them to bring Joe from the past. Joe didn’t know how they’d done it, and he didn’t care. Joe was a realist. He was here. The thing was to adapt.

      There didn’t seem to be any hurry. Once the deal was made, they left it up to him to make the decisions.

      They drove him around the town, when he wished to check the traffic arteries. They flew him about the whole vicinity. From the air, Southern California looked much the same as it had in his own time. Oceans, mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts, are fairly permanent even against man’s corroding efforts.

      It was while he was flying with Brett-James on the second day that Joe said, “How about Mexico? Could I make the get to Mexico?”

      The physicist looked at him questioningly. “Get?” he said.

      Joe Prantera said impatiently, “The getaway. After I give it to this Howard Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on the run, don’t I?”

      “I see.” Brett-James cleared his throat. “Mexico is no longer a separate nation, Mr. Prantera. All North America has been united into one unit. Today, there are only eight nations in the world.”

      “Where’s the nearest?”

      “South America.”

      “That’s a helluva long way to go on a get.”

      “We hadn’t thought of the matter being handled in that manner.”

      Joe eyed him in scorn. “Oh, you didn’t, huh? What happens after I give it to this guy? I just sit around and wait for the cops to put the arm on me?”

      Brett-James grimaced in amusement. “Mr. Prantera, this will probably be difficult for you to comprehend, but there are no police in this era.”

      Joe gaped at him. “No police! What happens if you gotta throw some guy in stir?”

      “If I understand your idiom correctly, you mean prison. There are no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera.”

      Joe stared. “No cops, no jails. What stops anybody? What stops anybody from just going into some bank, like, and collecting up all the bread?”

      Brett-James cleared his throat. “Mr. Prantera, there are no banks.”

      “No banks! You gotta have banks!”

      “And no money to put in them. We found it a rather antiquated method of distribution well over a century ago.”

      Joe had given up. Now he merely stared.

      Brett-James said reasonably, “We found we were devoting as much time to financial matters in all their endless ramifications—including bank robberies—as we were to productive efforts. So we turned to more efficient methods of distribution.”

      * * * *

      On the fourth day, Joe said, “Okay, let’s get down to facts. Summa the things you guys say don’t stick together so good. Now, first place, where’s this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?”

      Reston-Farrell and Brett-James were both present. The three of them sat in the living room of the latter’s apartment, sipping a sparkling wine which seemed to be the prevailing beverage of the day. For Joe’s taste it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was available to those who wanted it.

      Reston-Farrell said, “You mean, where does he reside? Why, here in this city.”

      “Well, that’s handy, eh?” Joe scratched himself thoughtfully. “You got somebody can finger him for me?”

      “Finger him?”

      “Look, before I can give it to this guy I gotta know some place where he’ll be at some time. Get it? Like Al Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi’s house, see? He lets me know every Wednesday night, eight o’clock, Al leaves the house all by hisself. Okay, so I can make plans, like, to give it to him.” Joe Prantera wound it up reasonably. “You gotta have a finger.”

      Brett-James said, “Why not just go to Temple-Tracy’s apartment and, ah, dispose of him?”

      “Jest walk in, eh? You think I’m stupid? How do I know how many witnesses hangin’ around? How do I know if the guy’s carryin’ heat?”

      “Heat?”

      “A gun, a gun. Ya think I’m stupid? I come to give it to him and he gives it to me instead.”

      Dr. Reston-Farrell said, “Howard Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily receives visitors every afternoon, largely potential followers. He is attempting to recruit members to an organization he is forming. It would be