The Second Science Fiction MEGAPACK®. Robert Silverberg
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name.”
“It is. My mother’s father was a Watusi.”
Barlow didn’t take the hand.
“I thought you looked pretty dark. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I don’t think I’d be at my best working with you. There must be somebody else just as well qualified, I’m sure.”
The psychist made a facial sign to Ryan-Ngana that meant, “Steady yourself, boy!”
“Very well,” Ryan-Ngana told Barlow. “We’ll see what arrangement can be made.”
“It’s not that I’m prejudiced, you understand. Some of my best friends—”
“Mr. Barlow, don’t give it another thought. Anybody who could pick on the lemming analogy is going to be useful to us.”
And so he would, thought Ryan-Ngana, alone in the office after Tinny-Peete had taken Barlow up to the helicopter stage. So he would. Poprob had exhausted every rational attempt and the new Poprobattacklines would have to be irrational or subrational. This creature from the past with his lemming legends and his improved building lots would be a fountain of precious vicious self-interest. Ryan-Ngana sighed and stretched. He had to go and run the San Francisco subway. Summoned early from the Pole to study Barlow, he’d left unfinished a nice little theorem. Between interruptions, he was slowly constructing an n-dimensional geometry whose foundations and superstructure owed no debt whatsoever to intuition.
Upstairs, waiting for a helicopter, Barlow was explaining to Tinny-Peete that he had nothing against Negroes, and Tinny-Peete wished he had some of Ryan-Ngana’s imperturbability and humor for the ordeal. The helicopter took them to International Airport where, Tinny-Peete explained, Barlow would leave for the Pole. The man from the past wasn’t sure he’d like a dreary waste of ice and cold.
“It’s all right,” said the psychist. “A civilized layout. Warm, pleasant. You’ll be able to work more efficiently there. All the facts at your fingertips, a good secretary—”
“I’ll need a pretty big staff,” said Barlow, who had learned from thousands of deals never to take the first offer.
“I meant a private, confidential one,” said Tinny-Peete readily, “but you can have as many as you want. You’ll naturally have top-primary-top-priority if you really have a workable plan.”
“Let’s not forget this dictatorship angle,” said Barlow.
He didn’t know that the psychist would just as readily have promised him deification to get him happily on the “rocket” for the Pole. Tinny-Peete had no wish to be torn limb from limb; he knew very well that it would end that way if the population learned from this anachronism that there was a small elite which considered itself head, shoulders, trunk and groin above the rest. The fact that this assumption was perfectly true and the fact that the elite was condemned by its superiority to a life of the most grinding toil would not be considered; the difference would.
The psychist finally put Barlow aboard the “rocket” with some thirty people—real people—headed for the Pole. Barlow was airsick all the way because of a posthypnotic suggestion Tinny-Peete had planted in him. One idea was to make him as averse as possible to a return trip, and another idea was to spare the other passengers from his aggressive, talkative company.
* * * *
Barlow during the first day at the Pole was reminded of his first day in the Army. It was the same now-where-the-hell-are-we-going-to-put-you? business until he took a firm line with them. Then instead of acting like supply sergeants they acted like hotel clerks. It was a wonderful, wonderfully calculated buildup, and one that he failed to suspect. After all, in his time a visitor from the past would have been lionized. At day’s end he reclined in a snug underground billet with the sixty-mile gales roaring yards overhead and tried to put two and two together. It was like old times, he thought—like a coup in real estate where you had the competition by the throat, like a fifty-percent rent boost when you knew damned well there was no place for the tenants to move, like smiling when you read over the breakfast orange juice that the city council had decided to build a school on the ground you had acquired by a deal with the city council.
And it was simple. He would just sell tundra building lots to eagerly suicidal lemmings, and that was absolutely all there was to solving The Problem that had these double-domes spinning. They’d have to work out most of the details, naturally, but what the hell, that was what subordinates were for. He’d need specialists in advertising, engineering, communications—did they know anything about hypnotism? That might be helpful. If not, there’d have to be a lot of bribery done, but he’d make sure—damned sure—there were unlimited funds. Just selling building lots to lemmings.
He wished, as he fell asleep, that poor Verna could have been in on this. It was his biggest, most stupendous deal. Verna—that sharp shyster Sam Zimmerman must have swindled her.
* * * *
It began the next day with people coming to visit him. He knew the approach. They merely wanted to be helpful to their illustrious visitor from the past, and would he help fill them in about his era, which unfortunately was somewhat obscure historically, and what did he think could be done about The Problem? He told them he was too old to be roped any more, and they wouldn’t get any information out of him until he got a letter of intent from at least the Polar President and a session of the Polar Congress empowered to make him dictator.
He got the letter and the session. He presented his program, was asked whether his conscience didn’t revolt at its callousness, explained succinctly that a deal was a deal and anybody who wasn’t smart enough to protect himself didn’t deserve protection—“Caveat emptor,” he threw in for scholarship, and had to translate it to “Let the buyer beware.” He didn’t, he stated, give a damn about either the morons or their intelligent slaves; he’d told them his price and that was all he was interested in. Would they meet it or wouldn’t they?
The Polar President offered to resign in his favor, with certain temporary emergency powers that the Polar Congress would vote him if he thought them necessary. Barlow demanded the title of World Dictator, complete control of world finances, salary to be decided by himself, and the publicity campaign and historical write-up to begin at once.
“As for the emergency powers,” he added, “they are neither to be temporary nor limited.”
Somebody wanted the floor to discuss the matter, with the declared hope that perhaps Barlow would modify his demands.
“You’ve got the proposition,” Barlow said. “I’m not knocking off even ten percent.”
“But what if the Congress refuses, sir?” the President asked.
“Then you can stay up here at the Pole and try to work it out yourselves. I’ll get what I want from the morons. A shrewd operator like me doesn’t have to compromise; I haven’t got a single competitor in this whole cockeyed moronic era.”
Congress waived debate and voted by show of hands. Barlow won—unanimously.
“You don’t know how close you came to losing me,” he said in his first official address to the joint Houses. “I’m not the boy to haggle; either I get what I ask, or I go elsewhere. The first thing I want is to see designs for a new palace for me—nothing un-ostentatious, either—and your best painters and sculptors to start working on my portraits and statues. Meanwhile, I’ll get my staff together.” He dismissed the Polar President and the Polar Congress, telling them that he’d let them know when the next meeting would be.
A week later, the program started with North America the first target. Mrs. Garvy was resting after dinner before the ordeal of turning on the dishwasher. The TV, of course, was on, and it said, “Oooh!”—long, shuddery and ecstatic, the cue for the Parfum Assault Criminale spot commercial.
“Girls,” said the announcer hoarsely, “do you want your man? It’s easy to get him—easy as a trip to Venus.”
“Huh?” said Mrs. Garvy.