The Collected Works of Mack Reynolds. Mack Reynolds
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a one-man member. I'm of the opinion that if there are any greater-powers-that-be They're keeping the fact from us. And if that's the way They want it, it's Their business. If and when They want to contact me—one of Their puppets dangling from a string—then I suppose They'll do it. Meanwhile, I'll wait.”
The other said interestedly, “You think that if there is a Higher Power and if It ever wants to get in touch with you, It will?”
“Um-m-m. In Its own good time. Sort of a don't call Me, thing, I'll call you.”
The personnel officer said, “There have been a few revealed religions, you know.”
“So they said, so they said. None of them have made much sense to me. If a Super-Power wanted to contact man, it seems unlikely to me that it'd be all wrapped up in a lot of complicated gobbledegook. It would all be very clear indeed.”
The personnel officer sighed. He marked the card, stuck it back into the slot in his order box and it disappeared.
He looked up at Ronny Bronston. “All right, that's all.”
Ronny came to his feet. “Well, what happened?”
The other grinned at him sourly. “Darned if I know,” he said. “By the time you get to the outer office, you'll probably find out.” He scratched the end of his nose and said, “I sometimes wonder what I'm doing here.”
Ronny thanked him, told him good-by, and left.
* * * * *
In the outer office a girl looked up from a card she'd just pulled from her own order box. “Ronald Bronston?”
“That's right.”
She handed the card to him. “You're to go to the office of Ross Metaxa in the Octagon, Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation, Section G.”
In a lifetime spent in first preparing for United Planets employment and then in working for the organization, Ronny Bronston had never been in the Octagon Building. He'd seen photographs, Tri-Di broadcasts and he'd heard several thousand jokes on various levels from pun to obscenity about getting around in the building, but he'd never been there. For that matter, he'd never been in Greater Washington before, other than a long ago tourist trip. Population Statistics, his department, had its main offices in New Copenhagen.
His card was evidently all that he needed for entry.
At the sixth gate he dismissed his car and let it shoot back into the traffic mess. He went up to one of the guard-guides and presented the card.
The guide inspected it. “Section G of the Bureau of Investigation,” he muttered. “Every day, something new. I never heard of it.”
“It's probably some outfit in charge of cleaning the heads on space liners.” Ronny said unhappily. He'd never heard of it either.
“Well, it's no problem,” the guard-guide said. He summoned a three-wheel, fed the co-ordinates into it from Ronny's card, handed the card back and flipped an easy salute. “You'll soon know.”
The scooter slid into the Octagon's hall traffic and proceeded up one corridor, down another, twice taking to ascending ramps. Ronny had read somewhere the total miles of corridors in the Octagon. He hadn't believed the figures at the time. Now he believed them. He must have traversed several miles before they got to the Department of Justice alone. It was another quarter mile to the Bureau of Investigation.
The scooter eventually came to a halt, waited long enough for Ronny to dismount and then hurried back into the traffic.
He entered the office. A neatly uniformed reception girl with a harassed and cynical eye looked up from her desk. “Ronald Bronston?” she said.
“That's right.”
“Where've you been?” She had a snappy cuteness. “The commissioner has been awaiting you. Go through that door and to your left.”
Ronny went through that door and to the left. There was another door, inconspicuously lettered Ross Metaxa, Commissioner, Section G. Ronny knocked and the door opened.
Ross Metaxa was going through a wad of papers. He looked up; a man in the middle years, sour of expression, moist of eye as though he either drank too much or slept too little.
“Sit down,” he said. “You're Ronald Bronston, eh? What do they call you, Ronny? It says here you've got a sense of humor. That's one of the first requirements in this lunatic department.”
Ronny sat down and tried to form some opinions of the other by his appearance. He was reminded of nothing so much as the stereotype city editor you saw in the historical romance Tri-Ds. All that was needed was for Metaxa to start banging on buttons and yelling something about tearing down the front page, whatever that meant.
Metaxa said, “It also says you have some queer hobbies. Judo, small weapons target shooting, mountain climbing—” He looked up from the reports. “Why does anybody climb mountains?”
Ronny said, “Nobody's ever figured out.” That didn't seem to be enough, especially since Ross Metaxa was staring at him, so he added, “Possibly we devotees keep doing it in hopes that someday somebody'll find out.”
Ross Metaxa said sourly, “Not too much humor, please. You don't act as though getting this position means much to you.”
Ronny said slowly, “I figured out some time ago that every young man on Earth yearns for a job that will send him shuttling from one planet to another. To achieve it they study, they sweat, they make all out efforts to meet and suck up to anybody they think might help. Finally, when and if they get an interview for one of the few openings, they spruce up in their best clothes, put on their best party manners, present themselves as the sincere, high I.Q., ambitious young men that they are—and then flunk their chance. I decided I might as well be what I am.”
Ross Metaxa looked at him. “O.K.,” he said finally. “We'll give you a try.”
Ronny said blankly, “You mean I've got the job?”
“That's right.”
“I'll be damned.”
“Probably,” Metaxa said. He yawned. “Do you know what Section G handles?”
“Well no, but as for me, just so I get off Earth and see some of the galaxy.”
* * * * *
Metaxa had been sitting with his heels on his desk. Now he put them down and reached a hand into a drawer to emerge with a brown bottle and two glasses. “Do you drink?” he said.
“Of course.”
“Even during working hours?” Metaxa scowled.
“When occasion calls.”
“Good,” Metaxa said. He poured two drinks. “You'll get your fill of seeing the galaxy,” he said. “Not that there's much to see. Man can settle only Earth-type planets and after you've seen a couple of hundred you've seen them all.”
Ronny sipped at his drink, then blinked reproachfully down into the glass.
Metaxa said, “Good, eh? A kind of tequila they make on Deneb Eight. Bunch of Mexicans settled there.”
“What,” said Ronny hoarsely, “do they make it out of?”
“Lord only knows,” Metaxa said. “To get back to Section G. We're Interplanetary Security. In short, Department Cloak and Dagger. Would you be willing to die for the United Planets, Bronston?”
That curve had come too fast. Ronny blinked again. “Only in emergency,” he said. “Who'd want to kill me?”
Metaxa poured another drink. “Many of the people you'll be working with,” he said.
“Well, why? What will I be doing?”
“You'll be representing United Planets,”