The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack. Mack Reynolds

said, “A year, during the last war. I was shot down twice and they figured my timing was going, so they switched me to medium bombers.”

      “Our information is that you have flown the Y-36G. ”

      That’s right.” Casey wondered what they were getting to.

      The board officer said, “In two weeks the first class of the Space Academy graduates. Until now, warfare has been restricted to land, sea and air. With this graduation we will have the military erupting into a new medium. ”

      “I’ve read about it,” Casey said.

      “The graduation will be spectacular. The class is small, only seventy-five cadets, but already the school is expanding. All the other services will be represented at the ceremony.”

      Warren Casey wished the other would get to the point.

      “We want to make this a very dramatic protest against military preparedness.” the other went on. “Something that will shock the whole nation, and certainly throw fear into everyone connected with arms.”

      The chairman took over. “The air force will put on a show. A flight of twenty Y-36Gs will buzz the stand where the graduating cadets are seated, waiting their commissions.”

      Realization was beginning to build within Casey.

      “You’ll be flying one of those Y-36Gs,” the chairman pursued. His next sentence came slowly. “And the guns of your craft will be the only ones in the flight that are loaded.”

      Warren Casey said, without emotion, “I’m expendable, I suppose?”

      The chairman gestured in negation. “No. We have plans for your escape. You make only the one pass, and you strafe the cadets as you do so. You then proceed due north, at full speed...”

      Casey interrupted quickly. “You’d better not tell me any more about it. I don’t think I can take this assignment.”

      The chairman was obviously taken aback. “Why, Warren? You’re one of our senior men and an experienced pilot.”

      Casey shook his head, unhappily. “Personal reasons. No operative is forced to take an assignment he doesn’t want. I’d rather skip this, so you’d best not tell me any more about it. That way it’s impossible for me to crack under pressure and betray someone.”

      “Very well,” the chairman said, his voice brisk. “Do you wish a vacation, a rest from further assignment at this time?”

      “No. Just give me something else.”

      One of the other board members took up another piece of paper. “The matter of Professor Leonard LaVaux,” he said.

      * * * *

      Professor Leonard LaVaux lived in a small bungalow in a section of town which had never pretended to more than middle class status. The lawn could have used a bit more care, and the roses more cutting back, but the place had an air of being comfortably lived in.

      Warren Casey was in one of his favored disguises, that of a newspaperman. This time he bore a press camera, held by its strap. There was a gadget bag over one shoulder. He knocked, leaned on the door jamb, assumed a bored expression and waited.

      Professor LaVaux seemed a classical example of stereotyping. Any producer would have hired him for a scholar’s part on sight. He blinked at the pseudo-journalist through bifocals.

      Casey said, “The Star, Professor. Editor sent me to get a few shots.”

      The professor was puzzled. “Photographs? But I don’t know of any reason why I should be newsworthy at this time.”

      Casey said, “You know how it is. Your name gets in the news sometimes. We like to have something good right on hand to drop in. Editor wants a couple nice shots in your study. You know, like reading a book or something.”

      “I see,” the professor said. “Well, well, of course. Reading a book, eh? What sort of book? Come in, young man.”

      “Any book will do,” Casey said with journalistic cynicism. “It can be Little Red Riding Hood, far as I’m concerned.”

      “Yes, of course,” the professor said. “Silly of me. The readers would hardly be able to see the title.”

      The professor’s study was a man’s room. Books upon books, but also a king-size pipe rack, a small portable bar, two or three really comfortable chairs and a couch suitable for sprawling upon without removal of shoes.

      LaVaux took one of the chairs, waved the supposed photographer to another. “Now,” he said. “What is procedure?”

      Casey looked about the room, considering. “You live here all alone?” he said, as though making conversation while planning his photography.

      “A housekeeper,” the Professor said.

      “Maybe we could work her in on a shot or two.”

      “I’m afraid she’s out now.”

      Casey took the chair the other had offered. His voice changed tone. “Then we can come right to business,” he said.

      The professor’s eyes flicked behind the bifocals. “I beg your pardon?”

      Warren Casey said, “You’ve heard of the Pacifists, Professor?”

      “Why…why, of course. An underground, illegal organization.” The professor added, “Quite often accused of assassination and other heinous crime, although I’ve been inclined to think such reports exaggerated, of course.”

      “Well, don’t,” Casey said curtly.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “I’m a Pacifist operative, Professor LaVaux, and I’ve been assigned to warn you to discontinue your present research or your life will be forfeit.”

      The other gaped, unable to adapt his mind to the shift in identity.

      Warren Casey said, “You’re evidently not knowledgeable about our organization, Professor. I’ll brief you. We exist for the purpose of preventing further armed conflict upon this planet. To secure that end, we are willing to take any measures. We are ruthless, Professor. My interest is not to convert you, but solely to warn you that unless your present research is ended you are a dead man.”

      The professor protested. “See here, I’m a scientist, not a politician. My work is in pure research. What engineers, the military and eventually the government do with applications of my discoveries is not my concern.”

      “That’s right,” Casey nodded agreeably. “Up to this point, you, like many of your colleagues, have not concerned yourself with the eventual result of your research. Beginning now, you do, Professor, or we will kill you. You have one week to decide.”

      “The government will protect me!”

      Casey shook his head. “No, Professor. Only for a time, even though they devote the efforts of a hundred security police. Throughout history, a really devoted group, given sufficient numbers and resources, could always successfully assassinate any person, in time.”

      “That was the past,” the professor said, unconvinced. “Today, they can protect me.”

      Casey was still shaking his head. “Let me show you just one tool of our trade.” He took up his camera and removed the back. “See this little device? It’s a small, spring-powered gun which projects a tiny, tiny hypodermic needle through the supposed lens of this dummy camera. So tiny is the dart that when it imbeds itself in your neck, hand, or belly, you feel no more than a mosquito bite.”

      The professor was motivated more by curiosity than fear. He bent forward to look at the device. “Amazing,” he said. “And you have successfully used it?”

      “Other operatives of our organization have. There are few, politicians in particular, who can escape the news photographer.