Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

It was MacDonald who answered. He said softly, “Natalie Wieliczka, along with Mike Dean and Louis Rosetti were captured. From what we understand…”

“Captured!” Watson barked. “What happened? What steps have you taken to rescue…”

MacDonald held up a chubby hand. “Evidently, they were burned as witches.”

Barry Watson sank into a chair, staring. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

Fredric Buchwald’s eyes had been going over the Texcocan delegation. “And Doctor Sanchez?”

Dick Hawkins growled. “That bitch is under confinement. House arrest, I suppose you’d call it.”

Barry Watson got control of himself. He looked up, his face hard now. “Where’s Amschel Mayer? I’ve got some important points to cover with him.”

All began to find seating for themselves, Kennedy saying to Barry Watson in a slur, “Take it easy fella. For that matter where’s Joe Chessman?”

Watson glared at the other. “You know where he is.”

“That I do, that I do,” Kennedy chuckled. “He’s purged, to use a term of yesteryear. At the rate you laddy-bucks are going, there won’t be anything left of you by the time our half century is up.” He snapped his fingers and a Genoese servant who’d been inconspicuously in the background, hurried to his side. “Let’s have some refreshments here. What’ll everybody have?”

“You act as though you’ve had enough already,” Watson bit out. He was a far cry from the youthful seeming, lanky and easy going man who had landed on Texcoco thirty years before.

Jerry Kennedy ignored him, insisted on everyone being served before he allowed the conversation to turn serious, Both the native Texcocans and those of Genoa eyed each other curiously; both held their peace. Their difference in costume, one group military, the other obviously businessmen, was striking.

Kennedy said slyly, “I see we’ve been successful in apprehending all of your agents, or you’d know more of our affairs.”

“Not all our agents,” Watson barked. “Only those on your southern continent. What happened to Amschel Mayer?”

Peter MacDonald, who, with Buchwald, was for the first time attending one of the decade-end conferences, had been hardly recognized in his new girth by the Texcocan team. But his added weight had evidently done nothing to his keenness of mind, although he was evidently somewhat taken back by the degree of animosity in the relationship between the two teams. He said now, smoothly, “Our good Amschel is under arrest. Imprisoned, in fact.” He shook his head, his double chins wobbling. “A tragedy.”

“Imprisoned!” Taller scowled. “By whom? I don’t like this. After all, he was your expedition’s headman.”

Barry Watson shot the military man an irritated glance but then rapped at MacDonald: “Yes. Don’t leave us there. What happened to him?”

MacDonald explained, even as Kennedy, who had already finished his long drink, signaled the servant for another round.

“The financial and industrial empire he had built was overextended. A small crisis and it collapsed. Thousands of investors suffered.” The fat man cleared his throat. “Those who were so unfortunate as not to be able to get out from under in time. However, in brief, he was arrested and found guilty.”

Barry Watson was unbelieving. “There is nothing you can do? The whole team? Obviously, you’re among those who were able to get out from under. Couldn’t you bribe him out? Rescue him by force and get him back here to the ship? With all the wealth you characters control…”

Jerry Kennedy laughed shortly. “We were busy bailing ourselves out of our own situations, Watson. You don’t know what international finances can be. Besides he dug his own grave…uh, that is, he made his own bed.”

Natt Roberts had been watching the Genoese contingent thoughtfully. He said, “It occurs to me that you’re the very ones that pulled the rug from under Amschel. You sold him out and took over his position.”

“Now, that’s an original thought,” Fredric Buchwald muttered. “But who would have ever thought of it before Natt? You always were quick with a new idea, Natt.”

The two teams were glaring at each other. That is, the Earthmen were. The Genoese and Texcocan native delegates were bright of eye, but otherwise expressionless.

Kennedy took his fresh drink from the waiter. He said, “Let’s cut out this dismal talk. How about our progress reports?”

“Progress reports,” Barry Watson growled. “That’s a laugh. You have your agents on Texcoco, we have our agents on Genoa. What’s the use of having these conferences at all?”

For the first time, one of the Genoese put in a word. Baron Leonar, son of the original Baron who had met with Amschel Mayer thirty years before, was a man in his mid-forties. He said quietly, “It seems to me that the time has arrived when the two planets might profit by open intercourse. Surely in this time one has progressed beyond the other in one or more fields, but lagged in others. If I understand it all correctly, the mission, of the Pedagogue is to bring us to as high a technological level as possible in half a century. Already three decades have passed. Cooperation is now in order.”

The Texcocans studied him thoughtfully, but Jerry Kennedy waved in negation with the hand that held his glass. “You don’t get it, Baron. You see, the thing is we wanta find out what system is going to do the most the quickest. If we cooperate with Barry’s gang, everything’ll get all mixed up.”

The Honorable Russ, now a wizened man of at least seventy, but still sharply alert, said, “However, Texcoco and Genoa might both profit.”

Kennedy grinned at him and said happily, “What do we care? You gotta take the long view. What we’re working out here is gonna be used on half a million planets eventually.” He tried to snap his fingers. “These two lousy planets don’t count that much.” He succeeded in snapping them on the second try. “Not that much.”

Barry Watson said in disgust, “You’re stoned, Jerry.”

“Why not?” Kennedy grinned. “Finally perfected a decent brandy. It was like pulling teeth. Lot’sa problems. Like casks to char to age the stuff. No oak on this curd of a world of ours. Had’ta improvise. Great stuff now. Something like Earthside Metaxa. I’ll have to send you a few cases, Barry.”

“And how would you go about that, Jerry?” Watson said softly.

Kennedy chortled. “Don’t be a yoke, Barry. Our space lighter makes a trip to Texcoco every month or so. Must keep up with you boys and what you’re doing. Maybe throw a wrench in the works once inna while.”

Peter MacDonald said, “Shut up, Jerry. You talk too much.”

“Don’t talk to me that way,” Kennedy sneered. “You’ll find yourself having one helluva time floating that loan you need next month. How about another drink everybody? This party’s dead.”

Watson said, “How about the progress reports? Briefly, we’ve all but completed our unifying of Texcoco. Minor setbacks have sometimes deterred us, but the march of progress goes on. We…”

“Minor setbacks,” Kennedy chortled. “Must have had to bump off five million of the poor slobs before that peasant revolt on the communes was finished with.”

Watson said coldly, “We always have a few reactionaries, religious fanatics, misfits, crackpots and malcontents to deal with. However, these are not important. Our industrial potential has finally begun to roll. We doubled steel production this year and will do the same next year. Our hydroelectric installations tripled in the past two years. Coal production is four times higher, lumber production six times. We expect to increase the grain harvest forty percent next season. And…”