Mack Reynolds - Pacifist

It was another time, another space, another continuum.

Warren Casey called, “Boy! You’re Fredric McGivern, aren’t you?”

The lad stopped and frowned in puzzlement. “Well, yes, sir.” He was a youngster of about nine. A bit plump, particularly about the face.

Warren Casey said, “Come along, son. I’ve been sent to pick you up.”

The boy saw a man in his mid-thirties, a certain dynamic quality behind the facial weariness. He wore a uniform with which young McGivern was not familiar, but which looked reassuring.

“Me, sir?” the boy said. “You’ve been sent to pick me up?”

“That’s right, son. Get into the car and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“But my father said…”

“Your father sent me, son. Senator McGivern. Now, come along or he’ll be angry.”

“Are you sure?” Still frowning, Fredric McGivern climbed into the helio-car. In seconds it had bounded into the second level and then the first, to speed off to the southwest.

It was more than an hour before the kidnapping was discovered.

Warren Casey swooped in, dropped two levels precipitately and brought the helio-car down in so dainty a landing that there was no perceptible touch of air cushion to garage top.

He fingered a switch with his left hand, even as be brought his right out of his jacket holding a badly bummed-out pipe. While the garage’s elevator sunk into the recess below, he was loading the aged briar from an equally ancient pouch.

In the garage, Mary Baca was waiting nervously. She said, even though she must have been able to see the boy, “You got him?”

“That’s right.” Casey said. “I’ve given him a shot. He’ll be out for another half hour or so. Take over, will you, Mary?”

The nurse looked down at the crumpled figure bitterly. “It couldn’t have been his father. We have to pick on a child.”

Casey flicked a quick glance at her as he lit the pipe. “It’s all been worked out, Mary.”

“Of course,” she said. Her voice tightened. “I’ll have him in the cell behind the rumpus room.”

Down below he went to the room that had been assigned him and stripped from the uniform. He went into the bath and showered thoroughly, washing out a full third of the hair that had been on his head and half the color in that which remained. He emerged from the bath, little refreshed and some five years older.

He dressed in an inexpensive suit not overly well pressed and showing wear. His shirt was not clean, as though this was the second day he had worn it, and there was a food spot on his tie.

At the small desk he picked up an automatic pencil and clipped it into the suit’s breast pocket and stuffed a bulky notebook into a side pocket. He stared down at the gun for a moment, then grimaced and left it. He departed the house by the front door and made his way to the metro escalator.

The nearest metro exit was about a quarter of a mile from Senator McGivern’s residence and Warren Casey walked the distance. By the time he arrived he had achieved a cynical quality in his expression) of boredom. He didn’t bother to look up into the face of whoever opened the door.

“Jakes,” he said. “H.N.S. McGivern expects me.”

“H.N.S.?” the butler said stiffly.

“Hemisphere News. Hemisphere News Service,” Warren Casey yawned. “Fer crissakes, we gonna stand here all day? I gotta deadline.”

“Well, step in here, sir. I’ll check.” The other turned and led the way.

Casey stuck a finger into his back. His voice went flat. “Don’t get excited and maybe you won’t get hurt. Just take me to the Senator, see? Don’t do nothing at all that might make me want to pull this trigger.”

The butler’s face was gray. “The senator is in his study. I warn you… sir… the police shall know of this immediately.”

“Sure, sure, Mac. Now just let’s go to the study.”

“It’s right in there… sir.”

“Fine,” Casey said. “And what’s that, under the stairway?”

“Why, that’s a broom closet. The downstairs maid’s broom…”

Casey brought his flat hand around in a quick clip. The servant folded up with a lung-emptying sigh and Casey caught him before he hit the floor, pushed and wedged him inside. He darted a hand to a vest pocket and brought forth a syrette. “That’ll keep you out for a couple of hours,” he muttered, closing the closet door.

He went over to the heavy door which the butler had indicated as Senator McGivern’s study, and knocked on it. In a moment it opened and a husky in his mid-twenties, nattily attired and of obvious self-importance, frowned at him.

“Yes?” he said.

“Steve Jakes of Hemisphere News,” Warren Casey said. “The editor sent me over…” As he talked, he sidestepped the other and emerged into the room beyond.

Behind the desk was an older edition of nine-year-old Fredric McGivern. A Fredric McGivern at the age of perhaps fifty, with what had been boyish plump cheeks now gone to heavy jowls.

“What’s this?” he growled.

Casey stepped further into the room. “Jakes, Senator. My editor…”

Senator Phil McGivern’s ability included cunning and a high survival factor. He lumbered to his feet. “Walters! Take him!” he snapped. “He’s a fake!” He bent over to snatch at a desk drawer.

Walters was moving, but far too slowly.

Warren Casey met him half way, reached forward with both hands and grasped the fabric of the foppish drape suit the secretary wore. Casey stuck out a hip, twisted quickly, turning his back halfway to the other. He came over and around, throwing the younger man heavily to his back.

Casey didn’t bother to look down. He stuck a hand into a side pocket, pointed a finger at McGivern through the cloth.

The other’s normally ruddy face drained of colour. He fell back into his chair.

Warren Casey walked around the desk and brought the gun the other had been fumbling for from the drawer. He allowed himself a deprecating snort before dropping it carelessly into a pocket.

Senator Phil McGivern was no coward. He glowered at Warren Casey. “You’ve broken into my home—criminal,” he said. “You’ve assaulted my secretary and threatened me with a deadly weapon. You will be fortunate to be awarded no more than twenty years.”

Casey sank into an easy chair so situated that he could watch both McGivern and his now unconscious assistant at the same time. He said flatly, “I represent the Pacifists, Senator. Approximately an hour ago your son was kidnapped. You’re one of our top priority persons. You probably realize the implications.”

“Fredric! You’d kill a nine-year-old boy!”

Casey’s voice was flat. “I have killed many nine-year-old boys, Senator.”

“Are you a monster!”

“I was a bomber pilot. Senator.”

The other, who had half risen again, slumped back into his chair.

“But that’s different.”

“I do not find it so.”

In his hard career, Phil McGivern had faced many emergencies. He drew himself up now. “What do you want—criminal? I warn you, I am not a merciful man. You’ll pay for this, Mr.…”

“Keep calling me Jakes, if you wish,” Casey said mildly. “I’m not important. Just one member of a widespread organization.”

“What do you want?” the Senator snapped.

“How much do you know about the Pacifists, McGivern?”

“I know it to be a band of vicious criminals!”

Casey nodded agreeably. “It’s according to whose laws you go by. We have rejected yours.”

“What do you want?” the Senator repeated.

“Of necessity,” Casey continued, evenly, “our organization is a secret one; however, it contains some of the world’s best brains, in almost every field of endeavour, even including elements in the governments of both Hemispheres.”