Mack Reynolds - Dawnman Planet

“Obviously, Ronny Bronston. And I want to be part of his team. Don’t you?”

Ronny said, “I thought I’d think about it a bit. I don’t change coats as easily as all that.”

She slowed the car’s pace a trifle and put a hand on his sleeve. She said, an element of inspiration in her voice, “Of course you don’t. But man has come as far as he can, Ronny, along the path as it is now. We need a strongman. What a glorious race we could become, if, under the banner of Maximilian Wyler, we united to march together into the future.”

^What future?”

“Eventually, the complete domination of the galaxy, no matter what other life forms we run into as we progress.”

“That’s quite an order,” Ronny said mildly.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t mean within our lifetimes. But only that can be the eventual destiny of man.”

Ronny said, “Suppose I granted that the race could use a strongman along here, a man on horseback, as the term goes. What leads you to believe that Uncle Max is the man?”

She frowned at him. “But isn’t that obvious? If he isn’t, he’ll never form his team, he’ll never come to power. History is strewn with the wrecks of would-be strongmen, who didn’t really have what was required.”

He nodded agreement. “You’re right, there. If Baron Wyler isn’t the man he thinks himself, he’ll land on the rocks, too.”

She drew up before the UP Building and brought the vehicle to a halt, although without setting it down. Her hand was on his arm again.

“Think it over, Ronny. My uncle evidently wants you on his team.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m thinking. Thanks for the ride.” He turned and taking two levels at a time, started up the stone steps. He didn’t turn when he heard her sporter whisk away from the curb.

In the small apartment which had been assigned him, he immediately went to his bag. He brought forth a small object looking something like a woman’s compact or a cigar case. He sat down at the table and propped it before him, activating it.

“Phil Birdman,” he clipped out. “Soonest.”

Birdman’s mahogany face faded into the miniature screen. “I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

“Get over here,” Ronny rapped. “I’m at the UP.”

“Right.” The Indian’s face faded.

Ronny said, “Irene Kasansky. Soonest.”

Irene’s perpetually harrassed face faded in, and twisted into her version of a smile, when she saw who it was. “Hi, Ronny, what’s the urgency?”

“I’ve got to talk to the Old Man, immediately.”

“No can do. Another big conference. He’s browbeating fifty or more presidents, kings, patriarchs and what not.”

“Give me Sid, then. And let the chief know I have to talk to him.”

“All right, but Supervisor Jakes is busy, too.”

Sid Jakes faded in, grin wreathed as usual. “Ronny! Plenipotentiary Extraordinary! Frankly, in spite of that imposing tag, I thought the Baron’d have you into his deepest dungeon by now.”

“Knock it!” Ronny clipped. “This is highest emergency. Everybody, but everybody, has been underestimating Uncle Max.”

Sid Jakes’ eyes widened slightly and his grin was a bit less bright. Not even in the seemingly lax Section G did an agent customarily tell Ross Metaxa’s right-hand man to shut.

“Who?” he asked.

Ronny briefed him on what had transpired.

The feisty Section G supervisor ran a hand over his mouth thoughtfully. “Hmmm. I wonder how it’d work out if you told the Baron you’re signing up with him? Then we’d have you on the inside of his organization.”

Ronny said plaintively, “I keep telling you, this Wyler is no cloddy. The moment I told him that, he’d slip me some Scop, just to see if I was lying. Then, when he found out my passion for him and his ambitions wasn’t exactly overwhelming, he’d see I had a few holes blasted in me.”

Sid said, “Yeah. Possibly, we’d better pull you out of there, Ronny. When you turn him down, the Baron isn’t going to be very happy about the fact that he’s revealed so much to you.”

“You can’t pull me out,” Ronny said. “There’s nobody else here but Phil Birdman, and the Baron is about to send his expedition to the Dawnworlds. If it succeeds, and he gets some of those ultra-ultra devices the Dawnmen have, the fat’s really in the fire. That matter converter. If I get a clear picture, with it he could duplicate himself a fleet of space cruisers that would outnumber everything UP has combined.”

“You have no idea where these Dawnworlds—where in Zen did that name ever come from?—are located?”

“None at all. The Baron learned through some of the things his people found on the little aliens’ planets.”

Jakes muttered, for once unsmiling, “Without coordinates, it could take us a millenium looking.” He looked up again. “Listen, I’ll get to Ross. Call you back.”

While he had been talking, Phil Birdman had entered the room. Ronny deactivated the Section G communicator and turned to his colleague.

The Indian said, “Well, at least, you’re still with us.”

“But how long that will be, I couldn’t guarantee,” Ronny told him.

The older agent sank into an auto-chair and dialed. “Pseudo-whiskey?” he asked. “I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to need a bit of firewater before I’ve heard all your story.”

They’d got through two highballs apiece before Ronny had finished bringing him up to date.

When he had ended, Birdman grunted. “There’s only one answer,” he submitted.

“What?”

“Let’s go down to the recruiting station and join up with Uncle Max.”

“Oh great, you overgrown funker. Funnies, I get.”

The communicator hummed. Ronny went over to the desk, sat down before it and activated the device. It was Ross Metaxa, at least as rumpled and weary as usual. He minced no words.

“That madman is taking a gamble, in his bid for power, that could destroy us all. Our big chance was to put off for as long as possible first contact with these aliens. To stall for time. Now he’s planning to set down on one of their planets, right now—to make immediate contact. He’s drivel-happy! Well, there’s nothing for it. Ronny, find out where those damned Dawnworlds are located.”

“Yes, sir. How?”

“How in the devil would I know? You and Agent Birdman are there. I’m not. The nearest other agents to Phrygia are a good week’s trip away. It’s all in your lap.”

Ronny Bronston looked at him.

His ultimate superior looked back, his eyes level.

On an impulse, Ronny blurted, “Was my becoming a Section G agent an engineered deal, not of my own choosing?”

The moist eyes looked deeply into his own, without flicker. “Yes.”

Ronny took a deep breath.

Ross Metaxa said, “Report through Irene as soon as you have anything.” His face faded.

Ronny turned to Phil Birdman, who had come up behind him to listen in on the conversation, but had missed even the final sentences. “You better dial us another drink, Phil. We’re going to need it.”

Phil, his expression passive, got the drinks, then sat down across from Ronny Bronston.

Ronny said slowly, “Phil, the Baron’s working on a full time basis on this project. That means somewhere, on or very near his person, is the information we need—the location of the Dawnworlds.”

The Indian said nothing.

Ronny said slowly, “Phil, the Baron isn’t quite as well informed on Section G as he’d like to think he is. There’re a few little items that come out of the gimmick department that—I’m willing to bet my life—he hasn’t heard about.”

Phil Birdman put down his glass.

Ronny said, “Phil, one of us has got to go in.”