C Kornbluth - His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"Cows and hay don't have to speak any language," she sparkled happily.

"I haven't seen a decent steer since Nebraska."

They got wind of the Produce Show and followed the smell to a neat collection of tents, where Kay delightedly inspected timothy and cheeses and champion milkers for two hours while Ballister tried to hold his breath for that length of time.

"Hold it," he snapped as she was going into a gush at a draft-horse who stared sullenly at her hat. "Gent's fainted."

They elbowed their way through the crowd, to find that the gentleman was nearly foaming at the mouth, twitching convulsively on the ground.

The only serious attention being paid him was by a barker from a nearby tent, who loudly offered three to one that the gentleman would die in less than half an hour.

"Throat constricted or something," said Kay after a swift examination.

"Looks like a super-violent allergy."

Ballister went through his pockets, found a box of amyl nitrite pearls.

He broke one under the man's nose, drawing it away as he came to.

"You, there," he snapped, waving up a couple of husky farmers. "Carry him away from this damned show of yours. There's something in the air that nearly killed him."

The peasants, grinning happily, lugged the man to the nearest taxi stand. Ballister ordered the hackie to drive to the center of town, where monoxide would most likely replace the pollen or whatever it was that had strangled him.

The man was unable to talk for a few miles, though he insisted, despite the soothing words of Miss Marsh, on pantomiming gratitude. He was a fine-looking gentleman, ruddy-faced, middle-aged or over, exquisitely dressed.

Finally, with one tremendous cough, he cleared his throat. "Thanks awf'ly," he exclaimed. "Those dim-head hunks would've let me perish on the spot!"

"What got you going?" asked Ballister. "Pollen from the hay?"

"Nothing so dashed ordin'ry. Would you believe it? It was mice that nearly did me in. They could get me in about sixty seconds."

"Why not?" replied Ballister. He thought to introduce himself, adding his official capacity at the Conference.

"Splendid," muttered the gentleman. "Psychological jurisprudence and all that, I mean! I'm Gaffney, by the way. Sir Mallory. Baronet."

Kay sat up like a shot; in the next two minutes she had asked him thirty questions and was primed for fifty more. Sir Mallory Gaffney was news—big news—hot news! He was said to be the man who had invented the springing system that made the revolutionary Enfield Armored Wagon a practical and terrible weapon. He was the man behind the gas-cooled tank motor. Likewise the synthesis of rubber from chalk and carbon dioxide, and any number of other departures.

And he had never been interviewed before!

Ballister pointedly interrupted the questioning with: "Didn't know you were at the Conference, Sir Mallory. Any official capacity, or just visiting?"

"Just ordered over, Mr. Ballister. They want my more-or-less expert testimony on this Durtal Bill."

"Durtal died or vanished without a trace this morning," said Kay. "Have you done anything in the invisibility line, Sir Mallory?"

The baronet laughed indulgently. "Hardly. You Americans had invisible battleships back in 1941, I hear. Learned the trick from some illusionist chap—Dunnings, or Kuss—one of them. But the mirrors lost their silvering in the sea-spray. That's as far as military invisibility's gone, I believe."

Ballister coughed warningly at the girl. "We'd better be getting back to the hotel," he said in overloud tones. "Sir Mallory's had a nasty shock."

He filled in the rest of the trip with diplomatic small talk, avoiding the controversial subjects dear to the reportorial heart of Kay.

Conspiracy

At the Hotel de Universe et d'Oslo they were all in for a nasty shock. The manager dashed to them as they emerged from the cab, and collared Sir Mallory and Ballister.

"Thank God for both of you!" he cried hysterically. "That this should happen chez moi—it is incroyable, the horrible truly that we face—I ruin and you despair!"

"Yeah," said Ballister skeptically. It was a little thick, believing that the hardheaded manager of a great international hotel could be shaken by anything that could happen in the way of bad luck. "Yeah. Explain yourself."

"The senator American—Beekman, he is vanished from his room."

A committee head hailed them from across the lobby and came over, looking grave. "He isn't kidding, Ballister. Beekman's flitted completely, like Durtal and the others. Right in the middle of a caucus on the Competition Act. Went out to—er, went out for a moment and never came back."

"My seempathie, monsignors," said a burly, black-haired man. "I have heard of the so-gre-ait loss of thee Amairicain delegation."

"Thanks, Rasonho," said the committee head abstractedly. "Maybe he'll turn up."

"Lait us hope so. Thee passage of thee Competition Act means vair-ree much to my people." As he walked off Ballister studied the man. There was something familiar about him, something damned strange to boot.

He inquired of the committee man.

"Rasonho? He's from the Pyrenese Peoples' Republic. Their only delegate. Good sort, but somewhat thick. He doesn't understand the parliamentary method."

"And what may the Pyrenese Peoples' Republic be?"

"I did an article on them," said Kay. "No wonder you missed them, because they popped up while you were at the front. They're a sort of Basque federation —not more than ten thousand of them, I'm sure. Yet they held DeCuerva's army when he was coming north through the Pyrenees to relieve Milhaud. By heaven, they held him for three months! It's gone unsung for the most part, but I call it the most remarkable feat of the war."

"No doubt," said Ballister abstractedly. "And then, after the Initial Treaty they organized under a simple native President, thinking they had won independence from France and Spain both?"

"That's right. The Conference recognizes them—even invited the delegate."

A bomb exploded in the lobby of the hotel; the high ceiling swayed right and left. Screams echoed through the great hall; emergency exits opened onto the street automatically.

"This is intolerable!" fumed Sir Mallory when they had gained cover.

"Someone—some party—is trying to destroy the Conference. They're trying to kill every damned one of us—or have us disappear bit by bit!"

"Sure," said Ballister. He wound a handkerchief around his wrist; flying plaster had clipped a bit of his flesh away. "What do you suggest, sir?"

"Armed guards, Mr. Ballister! We must fight this menace as it is trying to fight us! We must post men in every corridor—shoot suspicious persons on sight!"

"By heaven, yes!" snapped Kay. "They're trying to wreck the Anti-War Conference, and I won't have it. This is mankind's chance for peace at last, a final peace that will endure a hundred thousand years. Any dog who'd try to stand in the way of that, try to plunge the world back into the nightmare of war after war, deserves no mercy!"

Ballister looked somewhat sick; the corners of his mouth drooped peculiarly, as though he tasted something unpleasant. Finally he looked square into the eyes of the girl and said without conviction: "Yes. Fight them tooth and nail. The best thing to do."

The next day at the Conference Auditorium a half-dozen delegates proposed a Defense Act, claiming general privilege to take precedence over other business. After a few hearty seconding speeches which pointed out the danger in which they all stood, there were read the concrete proposals.

The Conference disbanded the International Police, which had been their protective force, as ineffectual. There was organized on the spot an armed force to patrol all Oslo and vicinity, whose right of search was unquestionable, who were able to arrest on suspicion and defer trial indefinitely. The entire Act was passed, a few members abstaining, none voting the negative.