Mack Reynolds: Dawnman Planet

He flashed his buzzer.

It was a simple enough silver badge, which glowed somewhat strangely when his hand came in touch with it. It read, merely, Ronald Bronston, Section G, Bureau of Investigation, United Planets .

“Than kue, Citizen Bronston. Please state your reason for desiring an appointment with Citizen Rosen.”

Ronny said testily, “Bureau of Investigation matter, of a security nature.”

“Than kue…” the voice faded away.

Almost immediately, a three wheeler approached, and its voicebox said, “Citizen Bronston. Please be seated.”

He mounted the scooter, and noted how quickly the pseudo-Egyptian decor melted away, as soon as they had entered a ramp leading into the depths.

The three wheeler took him, first, to a bank of elevators, plunged him an unknown number of levels, emerged, and then darted into corridor traffic.

Interplanetary News , Ronny considered. An octopus, which had spread over almost all the United Planets, and over many man-occupied worlds not affiliated with the confederation. Few, indeed, were the planets that could refrain from the fabulous news dispensing service. Even those worlds, such as Goshen, which were so tightly dominated by the feudalistic clique which suppressed it (keeping the populous ninety-five percent illiterate and taking all measures to keep even the barest knowledge of what transpired on other planets from its people), subscribed. In that case, only the nobility had access to the information purveyed.

It reminded Ronny, as he thought, that some measures were going to have to be taken by Section G to overthrow that Goshen aristocracy. If the planet was ever going to get anywhere, the people were going to have to be given a shove out of the mire of class-divided society.

He wondered, vaguely: how many languages, besides Earth Basic, did Interplanetary News have to deal with? A thousand? Probably, if dialects were considered . It seemed that a considerable number of the colonists, who wandered off into space—seeking their Ultima Thule—made effort to devise a new tongue, or, at least, to revive a dead one. There must be a score of versions of Esperanto alone, out there in the stars, not to speak of such jerry-rigged artificial tongues as: Ido, Volapük, Lingua Internaciona, Lingvo Kosmopolita, Esperantido, Nov-Esperanto, Latinesce, Nov-Latin, Europan, and what not.

The more closely a world identified with United Planets, of course, the more widespread the use of Earth Basic. But the worlds which attempted to keep aloof, usually for religious or socio-economic reasons, could get so far removed, that United Planets—as well as Interplanetary News—had to deal heavily through interpreters.

There even came to mind that far-out world settled by deaf-mutes. What was its name? Keller, or something .

The three wheeler came to a halt before a door.

“Citizen Rosen,” its voicebox said.

Ronny dismounted and the vehicle darted off into the corridor traffic.

He stood before the door’s screen, and said, “Bronston, to see Citizen Rosen.”

The door opened; he stepped through, and into the arms of two well-muscled goons. They held him by his arms, pausing a moment, as though waiting for his reaction.

Ronny mentally shrugged. It was their ball. Let them bounce it .

Both, still holding his arms, with one hand, each ran their other hands over him in the classic frisk. He didn’t resist.

One leered as he touched under the Section G agent’s left arm. “Ah, packing a shooter.”

The other said, “Take it, Jed.”

Ronny said mildly, “If you take that gun, without my deactivating it first, you’re a dead man, friend.”

The other’s hand, which had been darting under his jacket, came to a quick pause.

Jed scowled, “Don’t give me that jetsam. What d’ya mean?”

Ronny said reasonably, “It’s a Model H, built especially for the Bureau of Investigation. It’s tuned to me. Unless I, personally, deactivate it, anyone who takes it from me is crisp within seconds.”

The two of them froze.

Ronny said mildly, “If it’s as important as all that, suppose I deactivate it for you? And you can return it, when I leave. I’m not here to hurt anybody.”

“The boss said…”

“The boss is obviously a flat,” Ronny said, still with an air of bored reasonableness. “Since when does the Bureau of Investigation send pistoleros around to deal with half-baked newsmen?”

One looked at the other. “The boss said…” he let the sentence dribble away.

The other said, his voice gruff, “Okay, give us the gun.” Their hands dropped away.

Ronny took the gun from its quickdraw holster, touched a hidden stud and presented it, butt first. “Now, can I see this romantic cloddy, Rosen?”

Jed, at least, flushed; but, one leading, one bringing up the rear, they passed through another door and into a quarter acre of office.

Rosen sat behind a desk much too large for him. He bent a sly eye on the Section G agent.

“So… The Department of Dirty Tricks, Section Cloak and Dagger.”

Jed put the gun on the desk. “He had this on him,” he said; the implication being that they had wrested it away from Ronny in desperate fray.

Ronny said, “Look, you characters seem to have been taking in a lot of Tri-Di crime tapes, or some such. Why don’t we cut out all this maize and get around to the reason for my coming over here. We could have simply summoned you, you know.”

Rosen said nastily, “You could have summoned till Mercury turned to ice cubes. What’s going on over there at the Octagon? What happened to…” He cut himself short.

“To Rita Daniels?” Ronny provided. “She’s okay. My supervisor asked me to come over and bring you around to discuss Rita and her assignment.”

“Yeah? And then you’d have both of us, eh? Listen, Bronston, what’s going on? Half the most important bigwigs in the system have…”

Ronny said quickly, “I don’t believe you really want to discuss this in front of the boys, here.”

“Why not?”

“That’s what my supervisor wants to talk to you about,” Ronny said mildly.

The other stared at him. He was a smaller man, even, than the Section G operative, and there was a cast of perpetual disbelief in his eyes.

He said finally to his two goons, “Go over there to the far side of the room, but keep your eye on this fella. And don’t let his size throw you off.”

They went to the room’s far end and leaned against the wall, assuming expressions of bored cynicism in the best of Tri-Di crime show tradition. Ronny wondered vaguely if it had always been thus, down through the centuries. Did the bully boys and criminal toughs of Shakespeare’s day pick up their terminology and mannerisms from watching the villains in plays and aping them? He was inwardly amused.

As yet, Rosen hadn’t asked him to be seated. However, Ron pulled up a chair across the desk from the other, his back to the two goons. He looked at the newsman.

“My supervisor wants to talk to you.”

“Before he releases Rita, eh?”

There was a certain quality about the other’s voice. Ronny assumed the room was bugged.

“I didn’t say anything like that,” he said, ever mildly. “Where did you get the idea we were holding Rita Daniels?”

“She hasn’t returned.”

Ronny shrugged. “Why couldn’t she be out having a guzzle or two?” He brought a pen from an inner pocket. “Let me have a piece of paper, will you?”

Scowling puzzlement, Rosen pushed a pad over. He failed to notice that the agent—never departing from the standard motions a man makes when he is about to jot down an item—had depressed a small stud on the supposed writing instrument’s side. He failed to notice the faintest of hisses, nor the almost microscopic-sized dart that issued from the pen and pricked into his hand.