The Rival Rigelians

Amschel Mayer had dropped the subject. He was reading the radiogram again and scowling his anger. “This cooks MacDonald and Buchwald. I’ll break them.”

His assistant took another pull at his drink, and raised his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

“I’m not going to put up with my subordinates going against my interests.”

“In this case, what can you do about it? Business is business.”

“You hold quite a bit of their paper, don’t you?” The older man’s voice held a sly quality.

“You know that. Most of our team’s finances funnel through my hands.”

“We’ll close them out. They’ve become too concerned with their wealth. They’ve forgotten why the Pedagogue was sent here. I’ll break them, Jerry. They’ll come crawling. Perhaps I’ll send them back to the Pedagogue. Make them stay aboard as a permanent crew.”

Kennedy shrugged. “Well, Peter MacDonald is going to hate that. He’s developed into quite a high playboy—gourmet food, women, one of the most lavish estates on the southern continent.”

“Ha!” Mayer snorted. “Let him go back to ship’s rations and crews’ quarters.”

A servant entered the lushly furnished room and announced: “The Honorable Gunther calling on the Honorables Mayer and Kennedy.”

“Show him in, of course,” Mayer ordered. Martin Gunther, for once his calm ruffled, hurried into the room. “Rykov,” he blurted. “He’s disappeared. The barons have probably got him!”

Amschel Mayer shot to his feet. “That’s the end,” he swore shrilly. “Only in the west have the barons held out. I thought we’d slowly wear them down, take over their powers bit by bit. But this does it. This means we fight!”

He spun to Kennedy.

“Jerry, make preparations to take a trip out to the Pedagogue. You know the extent of Genoa’s industrial progress. Seek out the most advanced weapons this technology could produce.”

Kennedy put down his glass, and came to his own feet, shocked by Gunther’s words. “But, Amschel, do you think it’s wise to start an intercontinental war? Remember, we’ve been helping to industrialize the west, too. It’s almost as advanced as our continent. Their war potential isn’t weak.”

“Nevertheless,” Mayer snapped, “we’ve got to break the backs of the barons and the Temple monks. Get messages off to Baron Leonar and young Mannerheim, to Russ and Olderman. We’ll want them to put pressure on their local politicians. What we need is a continental alliance for this war.”

Gunther said, “Should I get in touch with Rosetti and Dean? They’re still over there.”

Mayer hesitated. “No,” he said. “Well keep Mike and Louis informed but they’d better stay where they are. We’ll still want our men in the basic positions of higher power when we’ve won.”

“They might get hurt,” Gunther scowled. “The barons might get them too. I’m not so sure about their cover. The Temple’s got a lot of strings out. They might know we’re all interconnected.”

“Nonsense. Mike and Louis can take care of themselves.”

Jerry Kennedy was upset. He was not by nature a man of violence. He said, “Are you sure about this war, chief? Isn’t a conflict of this size apt to hold up our overall plans?”

“Of course not,” Mayer scoffed. “Man makes his greatest progress under pressure. A major war will unite the nations of both the western continent and this one as nothing else could. Both will push their development to the utmost.”

He added, thoughtfully, “Which reminds me. It might be a good idea for us to begin accumulating interests in such industries as will be affected by a war economy.”

Jerry Kennedy chuckled at him. “Merchant of death.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Kennedy said. “Something I read about on an historical tape.”

VIII

At the decade’s end, once again the representatives of the Genoese team were first in the Pedagogue’s lounge. Mayer sat at the officers’ table, Martin Gunther at his right. Jerry Kennedy leaned against the ship’s bar, sipping appreciatively at a highball in a tall glass; the drink was inordinately dark.

They could hear the impact of the spaceboat from Texcoco when it slid into its bed.

“Poor piloting,” Gunther mused. “Whoever’s doing that flying doesn’t get enough practice.”

They could hear the ports opening and then the sound of approaching feet. The footsteps had a strangely military ring, for a group of scientists and technicians.

Joe Chessman entered, followed immediately by Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts. They were all dressed in heavy uniform, complete with colorful decorations. Behind them were four Texcocans, including Reif and his teen-age son, Taller, also in uniform, though the other two Tulans wore civilian dress.

Mayer scowled at them in the way of greeting. “Where’s Plekhanov?” he snapped. “The agreement was that the heads of teams meet each decade.”

“Leonid Plekhanov is no longer with us,” Chessman said sourly. “Under pressure his mind evidently snapped and he made decisions that would have meant the collapse of the expedition. He resisted when we reasoned with him.”