Mack Reynolds: Computer War

She had grabbed one foot of the dead man. He took the other.

“Where’re we going?” he demanded, breathing heavily. “Somebody’ll come along this hall…”

“Here,” she said. They’d reached a stairway.

They pushed the Surety man down, letting him roll over and over again.

“Quick,” she said. The gun.”

Combs scurried back and got the scrambler. They tossed it after their victim.

“Just a minute. I thought of something,” Tilly whispered. She scurried back to the room they had just left, while Combs’ eyes darted up and down the deserted hallway. It was lunch time, but you never knew.

She came back, one of the banana skins in her hands.

She put it on the top step, put her foot over it and rubbed it flat, as though it had been stepped upon accidentally.

“Come on, Centurion, let’s get out of here,” she said.

He looked at her, even as they scurried from the scene. “That was no joke when I called you Killer,” he said.

The guard at the door clicked his heels and said, “Coaid Deputy Ross Westley.”

Number One looked up from the work on his desk.

Ross entered and came to attention, even though he was dressed in mufti.

“Your Leadership,” he said.

The guard closed the door behind him.

Number One nodded. “Sit down, Ross.”

“Yes, Your Leadership.” Ross Westley crossed nearer to the quarter acre of desk behind which his ultimate superior sat, and found himself a chair. He had heard once that Number One deliberately had the chairs in his sanctum sanctorum constructed to be uncomfortable—possibly working on the theory that he didn’t want people about him to be at ease, physically or mentally. Ross didn’t know, but uncomfortable the chairs were.

Number One looked at him bleakly. “The decision has been made. Your commissariat has exactly one month in which to prepare the people for our crusade against Betastan.”

“A month!” Ross blurted.

“We can afford no more. I wish your father were still alive, Ross, but since he isn’t I trust your own ability to handle this.”

“Your Leadership,” Ross said tightly. “I doubt if my father, even, could have drummed up a war fever in this country in as short a period as one month. What possible approach…”

The Presidor eyed him grimly. “That is the problem of your offices, Coaid. You will receive full cooperation from all departments.”

Ross Westley’s mouth worked, but he could think of nothing to say.

“Snap out of it,” the other rumbled in sudden irritation. “There are thousands of approaches. Consult your staff. Bauserman would have a dozen suggestions by this time.”

A dozen? Ross thought bitterly. A double-score was more like it. Each more repulsive than the last.

Number One now said, “One suggestion of my own. The United Temple is fully behind this crusade. In fact”—he smiled his humorless smile—“His Holiness himself suggested that we call it just that, a Crusade. You realize that in the past century, in particular, the Betastani have drifted away from the more orthodox dogmas of the United Temple. I would play upon the fact, concentrate upon it, that our most basic desire in the war to defend ourselves against the Betastan aggressors is to bring back the true faith to that benighted land.”

Ross winced. “Isn’t that going to be a bit hard to swallow? Not on the part of the Betastani, of course. They don’t count. But the neutrals?”

“That is your task, Ross. Your commissariat had carte blanche. The computers have put your budget at approximately sixty-three million Alphas.”

The Presidor took a deep breath. “I suppose that is all for the moment. We shall have a session of the inmost coaids this afternoon and shall devote part of it to your propaganda campaign. By then, I assume you will have at least a skeletal program to present to us.”

Ross Westley came to his feet. Yes, Your Leadership. With your permission.”

“Until this afternoon,” Number One said.

Ross Westley slumped at the head of the table while his assistant, Job Bauserman, briefed department heads of the Commissariat of Information on the orders which had come directly from Number One.

He followed Assistant Deputy Bauserman sourly. The other was a full ten years the senior of Ross Westley and had come up in the governmental branch from the near bottom. He was lean and fanatic, had a gleaming eye and an overpowering ambition—and hated his superior’s guts.

It had been, of course, a matter of nepotism. Franklin Westley, the father of Ross, had been one of the Old Hands—those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Number One on the barricades of the first rebellion. He was one of those who had remained true when the Max Barker revolt burst into flames and even the Old Hands had been split.

The Old Hands took care of their own. When Franklin Westley died, Ross had been given his position as Deputy of the Commissariat of Information, known in party circles as the Department of Propaganda. At the time he received the appointment, shortly after taking his doctor’s degree in ancient history, his knowledge of the office was exactly nil. In time he had learned, but it was Job Bauserman and the others who were long-time pros upon whom he had to lean. He knew it and they knew it. And most of them hated him. Surely, Job did.

The other turned to Ross finally and, forced respect in his voice, said, “Have you anything to add to my summary, Coaid Deputy?*”

Ross shook his head and sat more erect. His assistant took his chair.

Ross said, “One month. I needn’t tell you that we’re going to need every second of it. This afternoon, there’s a meeting of the Central Comita. I’ve got to have at least a skeleton program to present. All right, ideas, please.”

Pater Ian said, “The United Temple has in its infinite wisdom long foreseen this development. The erring brethren of Betastan must be brought back into the fold. Of recent months we have been studying the workings of a historic organization which, under somewhat similar circumstances, proved highly effective. It was called the Holy Office. However, this plan of operation will not be practical until the collapse of the Betastani resistance. Meanwhile, the United Temple plans to open a full drive, not only in Alphaland and Betaland, but among the neutrals as well, revealing the extent to which the Betastani government has allowed atheism and agnosticism to undermine the faith of the people. If you will find time, Coaid Deputy, I shall go over in detail our broadcasts, publications and so forth, detailing the campaign.

Ross nodded. “Tomorrow morning, please.” He turned to another department head. “Coaid Taylor?”

Martha Taylor was the dry, neuter-sex type prevalent in governmental higher ranks.

She said, “I think I have something good. The Amish.”

Ross scowled at her. “The Amish?”

“To brief you, Coaid Deputy, I found this in my department’s data banks, somewhat to my surprise. It would seem that when the planet was first being colonized from Mother Earth, one ship’s complement was composed of a somewhat discriminated against religious group which settled in the back areas of Betastan near the Tatra Mountains. Later, elements of this group diffused over the planet, though few came to Alphaland.”

“Never heard of them,” somebody growled. “What’s this got to do with drumming up war fever against the damned Betastan funkers?”

She rewarded the speaker with a scornful eye, but went on. “The reason they had been discriminated against soon became obvious. They stuck together against all outside pressures. They went into such fields as finance and merchandising, soon gaining all but monopolies not only in Betastan but in several other nations. They also gained high governmental offices, though usually inconspicuous ones. Evidently, from my data, they are the power behind the Betastan administration.”