The Mack Reynolds Megapack. Mack Reynolds

Where’s my get car parked? Where do I hide out? Where do I dump the heat?”

      “Dump the heat?”

      “Get rid of the gun. You want I should get caught with the gun on me? I’d wind up in the gas chamber so quick—”

      “See here, Mr. Prantera,” Brett-James said softly. “We no longer have capital punishment, you must realize.”

      “Okay I still don’t wanta get caught. What is the rap these days, huh?” Joe scowled. “You said they didn’t have no jails any more.”

      “This is difficult for you to understand, I imagine,” Reston-Farrell told him, “but, you see, we no longer punish people in this era.”

      That took a long, unbelieving moment to sink in. “You mean, like, no matter what they do? That’s crazy. Everybody’d be running around giving it to everybody else.”

      “The motivation for crime has been removed, Mr. Prantera,” Reston-Farrell attempted to explain. “A person who commits a violence against another is obviously in need of medical care. And, consequently, receives it.”

      “You mean, like, if I steal a car or something, they just take me to a doctor?” Joe Prantera was unbelieving.

      “Why would anybody wish to steal a car?” Reston-Farrell said easily.

      “But if I give it to somebody?”

      “You will be turned over to a medical institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is the last man you will ever kill, Mr. Prantera.”

      A chillness was in the belly of Joe Prantera. He said very slowly, very dangerously, “You guys figure on me getting caught, don’t you?”

      “Yes,” Brett-James said evenly.

      “Well then, figure something else. You think I’m stupid?”

      “Mr. Prantera,” Dr. Reston-Farrell said, “there has been as much progress in the field of psychiatry in the past two centuries as there has in any other. Your treatment would be brief and painless, believe me.”

      Joe said coldly, “And what happens to you guys? How do you know I won’t rat on you?”

      Brett-James said gently, “The moment after you have accomplished your mission, we plan to turn ourselves over to the nearest institution to have determined whether or not we also need therapy.”

      “Now I’m beginning to wonder about you guys,” Joe said. “Look, all over again, what’d’ya wanta give it to this guy for?”

      The doctor said, “We explained the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous, atavistic, evil genius. We are afraid for our institutions if his plans are allowed to mature.”

      “Well if you got things so good, everybody’s got it made, like, who’d listen to him?”

      The doctor nodded at the validity of the question. “Mr. Prantera, Homo sapiens is a unique animal. Physically he matures at approximately the age of thirteen. However, mental maturity and adjustment is often not fully realized until thirty or even more. Indeed, it is sometimes never achieved. Before such maturity is reached, our youth are susceptible to romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism, racism, the supposed glory of the military, all seem romantic to the immature. They rebel at the orderliness of present society. They seek entertainment in excitement. Citizen Temple-Tracy is aware of this and finds his recruits among the young.”

      “Okay, so this guy is dangerous. You want him knocked off before he screws everything up. But the way things are, there’s no way of making a get. So you’ll have to get some other patsy. Not me.”

      “I am afraid you have no alternative,” Brett-James said gently. “Without us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera, you do not even speak the language.”

      “What’d’ya mean? I don’t understand summa the big words you eggheads use, but I get by okay”

      Brett-James said, “Amer-English is no longer the language spoken by the man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only students of such subjects any longer speak such tongues as Amer-English, French, Russian or the many others that once confused the race with their limitations as a means of communication.”

      “You mean there’s no place in the whole world where they talk American?” Joe demanded, aghast.

      * * * *

      Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next to him and Warren Brett-James sat in the back. Joe had, tucked in his belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed in a museum. It had been more easily procured than the ammunition to fit it, but that problem too had been solved.

      The others were nervous, obviously repelled by the very conception of what they had planned.

      Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now that they had got in the clutch, the others were on the verge of chickening out. He knew it wouldn’t have taken much for them to cancel the project. It wasn’t any answer though. 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