Mack Reynolds: Equality: In the Year 2000

“What hassle?” Julian asked. He sipped his drink. “And what in the hell are all those people doing out in the streets?”

“There have been quite a few riots and demonstrations this last couple of weeks. The Moroccans want to bring the Sultan back—Mohammed the Fifth—and reunite the French Zone, and Spanish Zone, and the International Zone. The Sultan’s in exile with about fifteen wives and concubines and about fifty servants and aides. My heart is really bleeding for him.”

“Will they win?”

“Probably. Nobody wants colonies any more,” Roy said cynically. “They’re expensive to run, and it takes more to keep the people down than they’re worth. The British didn’t get out of India because they loved the Indians. It’s more profitable to dominate a country by owning its industries, controlling its money, getting a monopoly on its trade and raw-materials, than it is to own it. Even the French are finding that out. Meanwhile, though, they don’t want to lose face. Last night, some of the Foreign Legion were brought into town. And the French have two tanks and several machine gun emplacements on the lawn of their embassy. Somebody will probably get hurt before the day’s over. The rabble rousers are in the streets, trying to stir up a march on the French Embassy.”

He nodded toward the door. “That’s who’s out there now—the potential mob. They’re trying to get up their courage. Poor bastards, they don’t have any weapons beyond cobblestones and clubs.”

Julian took a tobacco pouch from his coat pocket and a Canadian shell briar, and loaded up. Silently, he picked up Roy’s matches from the table and lit his pipe, exhaling through his nostrils.

Outside, the milling crowd was growing.

“First time I’ve ever seen a demonstration,” Julian commented.

The newspaperman smiled wryly. “It probably won’t be the last, the way the world’s going. I’ll try to cover the story when they get around to lining playboy entrepreneur Julian West up against the nearest wall for target practice.”

“They’ll have to catch me first,” Julian murmured, taking up his glass again.

Outside, the mob was moving. The French Embassy bordered the Place de France, only a long block away.

“There they go,” said Roy. “This business of yours in Tangier. Is there a story in it?”

Julian shrugged. “I came to talk over a few things with Ira Levine, over at the Moses Periente bank. They handle some of the West Enterprises.”

“Moses Periente, eh?” Roy looked thoughtful.

“What’s wrong with Moses Periente? There’s some talk of their moving their whole operation to Switzerland,” Julian added.

Roy said carefully, “The rumor in Tangier is that Moses Periente is going to move the operation all right, but to the Bahamas. And you know what that means. It’s home base for every crooked financial operation in the world.”

“That wouldn’t influence West Enterprises. We’re too big to mess around with.”

At that moment there were two loud explosions from the direction of the French Embassy.

“Good God!” Julian exclaimed. “They’re shelling the mob!”

Roy shook his head. “No—not yet, at least. Those are noise bombs.”

“What in the hell’s a noise bomb?”

“A bomb that makes a lot of noise but has no fragments. The riot police use them. It’s a scare tactic.” He rose to his feet, picked up his cigarettes from the table and put them into his pocket. “I’d better mosey on up and take a look.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Roy stared at him for a couple of seconds. “This is the way I make my living. I have to go…”

Julian banged his pipe out. He stood up, saying, “Put the drinks on my tab, Dean.”

The bartender asked apprehensively, “Mr. London, do you think I ought to close up?”

“Yes,” Roy responded laconically. He looked at Julian. “All right, sucker, let’s go.”

The street outside was comparatively empty now; those people to be seen were mostly women. They started up toward the plaza, in the direction of the mob.

In an alleyway stood some twenty soldiers with bayoneted rifles. They wore steel helmets, except the sergeant in charge who was bareheaded. His skull was shaven, deeply tanned with an ugly scar running from the top down to one mangled ear. He had cold, piercing eyes.

“French Legion,” Roy muttered.

The sergeant growled in French, “Move on.”

“Get screwed,” Roy told him in English, but he was moving when he said it.

He turned to Julian. “They also brought in some water cannons last night. So all the fun and games won’t be with noise bombs.”

“What’s a water cannon?”

They were nearing the square and the French Embassy. Julian could see two tanks within the iron fence which surrounded the building, the long cannon snoots pointed in the direction of the yelling, screaming demonstraters. There were quite a few legionnaires standing at ease on the Embassy lawn, with rifles or submachine guns in hand.

“Another anti-riot device, invented—surprise, surprise—in Germany. There’s one up ahead,” London said.

It looked like nothing so much as a gasoline truck, except that the windows were barred, and what appeared to be twin machine guns were mounted on top of the cab.

Roy slipped into a doorway and pulled Julian in beside him. “They shoot water at an unbelievable pressure, stronger than any firefighting equipment ever heard of. The next day the newspaper says, ‘The police turned water on the mob and dispersed it.’ Sounds innocuous to the reader, but it’s deadly.” Suddenly he grabbed Julian by the arm and hauled him deeper into their shelter. “Look out,” he snapped.

A sizable element of the mob had spotted the vehicle and were running toward it, screaming in protest.

The two muzzles of the hoses atop the cab opened up and double streams of water, seemingly no thicker than a pencil, shot out.

The screams were suddenly cut off. The Moroccans were hurled back, smashed up against the brick building behind them, thrown to the sidewalk, tumbling and spilling, driven back by the unbelievable pressure.

For a moment, a confused, terrified child stood alone. The water spray hit him before he could turn to run. It hit him at waist level and traversed his body, cutting him in two.

It was the child prostitute who had accosted Julian earlier.

Julian awoke in his bed in the high-rise apartment building of the University City. He was wringing with sweat.

When Julian entered the breakfast nook, the three Leetes were already at the table but evidently hadn’t ordered yet. He was still somewhat shaken by the nightmare. The child’s death had been the most horrible he had ever witnessed. And it couldn’t have been more useless. Within a month or so, the French had capitulated and the Sultan, Mohammed V, had returned to his throne. Much good it had done the Moors.

They went through the standard morning greetings and Julian seated himself.

Doctor Leete said, “We put off deciding on breakfast until you joined us. I suggest we have Eggs à la Julian, your formula for shirred eggs that you introduced to us the other morning. Martha didn’t have breakfast with us that day.”

“Very well,” Martha Leete agreed. “But only if Jule will submit to one of my recipes for lunch. I too am an amateur cook, Julian, with quite a few of my concoctions on file in the building’s kitchen data banks.” She made a move. “I wonder if anyone else ever orders them.”