Mack Reynolds - Planetary Agent X

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PLANETARY
AGENT X
by Mack Reynolds
ACE BOOKS, INC.
1120 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. 10036
PLANETARY AGENT X
Copyright ©, 1965, by Mack Reynolds
This novel originally appeared in Analog in two parts under the
titles Ultima Thule and Pistolero.
All Rights Reserved
PART ONE
I
At least he had got far enough to wind up with a personal
interview. It is one thing doing up an application and seeing it go
onto an endless tape and be fed into the maw of a machine and
then to receive, in a matter of moments, a neatly printed rejection.
It is another to receive an appointment to be interviewed by a
placement officer in the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs,
Department of Personnel. Ronny Bronston was under no illusions.
Nine out of ten men of his age annually made the same
application. Almost all were annually rejected. Statistically
speaking, practically nobody ever got an interplanetary position.
But he had made one step along the path of a lifetime ambition.
He stood at easy attention immediately inside the door. At the
desk at the far side of the room the placement officer was going
through a sheaf of papers. He looked up and said, “Ronald
Bronston? Sit down. You’d like an interplanetary assignment, eh?
So would I.”
Ronny took the chair. For a moment he tried to appear alert,
earnest, ambitious but not too ambitious, fearless, devoted to the
cause, and indispensable. For a moment. Then he gave it up and
looked like Ronny Bronston.
The other looked him over. The personnel official saw a man
of averages. In the late twenties. Average height, weight and
breadth. Pleasant of face in an average sort of way, but not
handsome. Less than sharp in dress, hair inclined to be on the
undisciplined side. Brown hair, dark eyes. In a crowd,
inconspicuous.
The personnel officer grunted. He pushed a button, said
something into his order box. A card slid into the slot and he took
it out and stared gloomily at it.
“What’re your politics?” he said.
“Politics?” Ronny Bronston said. “I haven’t any politics. My
father and grandfather before me have been citizens of United
Planets. There hasn’t been any politics in our family for three
generations.”
“Family?”
“None.”
The other grunted and marked the card. “Racial prejudices?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have any racial prejudices? Any at all.”
“No.”
The personnel officer said, “Most people answer that way at
first, these days, but some don’t at second. For instance, suppose
you had to have a blood transfusion. Would you have any objection
to it being blood donated by, say, a Negro, a Chinese, or, say, a
Jew?”
Ronny ticked it off on his fingers. “One of my
great-grandfathers was a French colon who married a Moroccan girl.
The Moors are a blend of Berber, Arab, Jew and Negro. Another of
my great-grandfathers was a Hawaiian. They’re largely a blend of
Polynesians, Japanese, Chinese and Caucasians, especially
Portuguese. Another of my great-grandfathers was Irish, English,
and Scotch. He married a girl who was half Latvian, half Russian.
Believe me, if I had a blood transfusion from just anybody at all,
the blood would feel right at home.”
The interviewer snorted, even as he marked the card. “That
accounts for three great-grandfathers,” he said lightly. “What was
the other one?”
Ronny said expressionlessly, “A Texan.”
The secretary shrugged and looked at the car again.
“Religion?”
“Reformed Agnostic,” Ronny said. This one was possibly
where he ran into a brick wall. Many of the planets had strong
religious beliefs of one sort or another. Some of them had state
religions and you either belonged or else.
The personnel officer frowned. “Is there any such church?”
“No. I’m 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, 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 goodbye, 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 working for the organization, Ronny
Bronston had never been in the Octagon Building. He’d seen
photographs, Tri-D 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 scooter, fed the coördinates 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, but now he
did. 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 waiting for 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 a man in the middle years, with a sour
expression and moist eyes, as though he either drank too much or
slept too little. He had been going through a wad of papers, but he
looked up as Ronny entered.
“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 it out.” That didn’t seem
to be enough, especially since Ross Metaxa was staring at him, so
he added, “Possibly we 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.
Men 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,” Metaxa explained.
“Representing United Planets in cases where the local situation is
such that the folks you’re working among will be teed off at the
organization.”
“Well, why are they members if they don’t like the UP?”
“That’s a good question,” Metaxa said. He yawned. “I guess
I’ll have to go into my speech.” He finished his drink. “Now, shut
up till I give you some background. You’re probably full of a lot of
nonsense you picked up in school.”
Ronny shut up. He’d expected more of an air of dedication in
the Octagon, particularly in such ethereal departments as that of
Interplanetary Justice; however, he was a member now and not
adverse to picking up some sophistication beyond the ken of the
Earth-bound employees of UP.
The other’s voice took on a faraway, slightly bored tone. “It
seems that most of the times man gets a really big idea, he goes off
half cocked. Just one example. Remember when the ancient
Hellenes exploded into the Mediterranean? A score of different
city-states began sending out colonies, which in turn sprouted
colonies of their own. Take Syracuse, on Sicily. Hardly was she
established than, bingo, she sent off colonies to Southern Italy, and
they in turn to Southern France, Corsica, the Balearics. Greeks
were exploding all over the place, largely without adequate plans,
without rhyme or reason. Take Alexander. Roamed off all the way
to India, founding cities and colonies of Greeks all along the way.”
The older man shifted in his chair. “You wonder what I’m
getting at, eh? Well, much the same thing is happening in man’s
explosion into space, now that he has the ability to leave the solar
system behind. Dashing off half cocked, in all directions. He’s
flowing out over this section of the galaxy without plan, without
rhyme or reason.” He paused, frowning. “I take that last back. He
has reasons, all right—some of the screwiest. Religious reasons,
racial reasons, idealistic reasons, political reasons, altruistic reasons
and mercenary reasons.
“Inadequate ships, manned by small numbers of inadequate
people, setting out to find their own planets, to establish
themselves on one of the numberless uninhabited worlds that offer
themselves to colonization and exploitation.”
Ronny cleared his throat. “Well, isn’t that a good thing, sir?”
Ross Metaxa looked at him and grunted. “What difference
does it make if it’s good or not? It’s happening. We’re spreading
our race out over tens of hundreds of new worlds in the most
haphazard fashion. As a result, we of United Planets now have a
chaotic mishmash on our hands. How we manage to keep as many
planets in the organization as we do sometimes baffles me. I
suppose most of them are afraid to drop out, conscious of the
protection UP gives against each other.”
He picked up a report. “Here’s Monet, originally colonized by
a bunch of painters, writers, musicians and such. They had dreams
of starting a new race”—Metaxa snorted—“with everybody artists.
They were all so impractical that they even managed to crash their
ship on landing. For three hundred years they were uncontacted.
摘要：

 PLANETARYAGENTX byMackReynolds        ACEBOOKS,INC.1120AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,N.Y.10036   PLANETARYAGENTXCopyright©,1965,byMackReynoldsThisnoveloriginallyappearedinAnalogintwopartsunderthetitlesUltimaThuleandPistolero.AllRightsReserved         PARTONE   I Atleasthehadgotfarenoughtowindupwithape...

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