The Greatest Sci-Fi Works (Illustrated Edition) - Mack Reynolds

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It's no mistake that Articles One and Two are the basic foundation of the Charter. No member planet wants to be interfered with by any other or by United Planets as an organization. They want to be left alone.

      “Within our ranks we have planets with every religion known to man throughout the ages. Everything ranging from primitive animism to the most advanced philosophic ethic. We have every political system ever dreamed of, and every socio-economic system. It can all be blamed on the crack-pot manner in which we're colonizing. Any minority, no matter how small—religious, political, racial, or whatever—if it can collect the funds to buy or rent a spacecraft, can dash off on its own, find a new Earth-type planet and set up in business.

      “Fine. One of the prime jobs of Section G is to carry out, to enforce, Articles One and Two of the Charter. A planet with Buddhism as its state religion, doesn't want some die-hard Baptist missionary stirring up controversy. A planet with a feudalistic socio-economic systems doesn't want some hot-shot interplanetary businessman coming in with some big deal that would eventually cause the feudalistic nobility to be tossed onto the ash heap. A planet with a dictatorship doesn't want subversives from some democracy trying to undermine their institutions—and vice versa.”

      “And its our job to enforce all this, eh?” Ronny said.

      “That's right,” Metaxa told him sourly. “It's not always the nicest job in the system. However, if you believe in United Planets, an organization attempting to co-ordinate in such manner as it can, the efforts of its member planets, for the betterment of all, then you must accept Section G and Interplanetary Security.”

      Ronny Bronston thought about it.

      Metaxa added, “That's why one of the requirements of this job is that you yourself be a citizen of United Planets, rather than of any individual planet, have no religious affiliations, no political beliefs, and no racial prejudices. You've got to be able to stand aloof.”

      “Yeah,” Ronny said thoughtfully.

      Ross Metaxa looked at his watch again and sighed wearily. “I'll turn you over to one of my assistants,” he said. “I'll see you again, though, before you leave.”

      “Before I leave?” Ronny said, coming to his feet. “But where do I start looking for this Tommy Paine?”

      “How the hell would I know?” Ross Metaxa growled.

       * * * * *

      In the outer office, Ronny said to the receptionist, “Commissioner Metaxa said for me to get in touch with Sid Jakes.”

      She said, “I'm Irene Kasansky. Are you with us?”

      Ronny said, “I beg your pardon?”

      She said impatiently, “Are you going to be with the Section? If you are, I've got to clear you with your old job. You were in statistics over in New Copenhagen, weren't you?”

      Somehow it seemed far away now, the job he'd held for more than five years. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, Commissioner Metaxa has given me an appointment.”

      She looked up at him. “Probably to look for Tommy Paine.”

      He was taken aback. “That's right. How did you know?”

      “There was talk. This Section is pretty well integrated.” She grimaced, but on her it looked good. “One big happy family. High interdepartmental morale. That sort of jetsam.” She flicked some switches. “You'll find Supervisor Jakes through that door, one to your left, two to your right.”

      He could have asked one what to his left and two what to his right, but evidently Irene Kasansky thought he had enough information to get him to his destination. She'd gone back to her work.

      It was one turn to his left and two turns to his right. The door was lettered simply Sidney Jakes. He knocked and a voice shouted happily, “It's open. It's always open.”

      Supervisor Jakes was as informal as his superior. His attire was on the happy-go-lucky side, more suited for sports wear than a fairly high ranking job in the ultra-staid Octagon.

      He couldn't have been much older than Ronny Bronston but he had a nervous vitality about him that would have worn out the other in a few hours. He jumped up and shook hands. “You must be Bronston. Call me Sid.” He waved a hand at a typed report he'd been reading. “Now I've seen them all. They've just applied for entry to United Planets. Republic. What a name, eh?”

      “What?” Ronny said.

      “Sit down, sit down.” He rushed Ronny to a chair, saw him seated, returned to the desk and flicked an order box switch. “Irene,” he said, “do up a badge for Ronny, will you? You've got his code, haven't you? Good. Send it over. Bronze, of course.”

      Sid Jakes turned back to Ronny and grinned at him. He motioned to the report again. “What a name for a planet. Republic. Bunch of screw-balls, again. Out in the vicinity of Sirius. Based their system on Plato's Republic. Have to go the whole way. Don't even speak Basic. Certainly not. They speak Ancient Greek. That's going to be a neat trick, finding interpreters. How'd you like the Old Man?”

      Ronny said, dazed at the conversational barrage, “Old Man? Oh, you mean Commissioner Metaxa.”

      “Sure, sure,” Sid grinned, perching himself on the edge of the desk. “Did he give you that drink of tequila during working hours routine? He'd like to poison every new agent we get. What a character.”

      The grin was infectious. Ronny said carefully, “Well, I did think his method of hiring a new man was a little—cavalier.”

      “Cavalier, yet,” Sid Jakes chortled. “Look, don't get the Old Man wrong. He knows what he's doing. He always knows what he's doing.”

      “But he took me on after only two or three minutes conversation.”

      Jakes cocked his head to one side. “Oh? You think so? When did you first apply for interplanetary assignment, Ronny?”

      “I don't know, about three years ago.”

      Jakes nodded. “Well, depend on it, you've been under observation for that length of time. At any one period, Section G is investigating possibly a thousand potential agents. We need men but qualifications are high.”

      He hopped down from his position, sped around to the other side of the desk and lowered himself into his chair. “Don't get the wrong idea, though. You're not in. You're on probation. Whatever the assignment the Old Man gave you, you've got to carry it out successfully before you're full fledged.” He flicked the order-box switch and said, “Irene, where the devil's Ronny's badge?”

      Ronny Bronston heard the office girl's voice answer snappishly.

      “All right, all right,” Jakes said. “I love you, too. Send it in when it comes.” He turned to Ronny. “What is your assignment?”

      “He wants me to go looking for some firebrand nicknamed Tommy Paine. I'm supposed to arrest him. The commissioner said you'd give me details.”

       * * * * *

      Sid Jakes' face went serious. He puckered up his lips. “Wow, that'll be a neat trick to pull off,” he said. He flicked the order-box switch again. Irene's voice snapped something before he could say anything and Sid Jakes grinned and said, “O.K., O.K., darling, but if this is the way you're going to be I won't marry you. Then what will the children say? Besides, that's not what I called about. Have ballistics do up a model H gun for Ronny, will you? Be sure it's adjusted to his code.”

      He flicked off the order box and turned back to Ronny. “I understand you're familiar with hand guns. It's in this report on you.”

      Ronny nodded. He was just beginning to adjust to this free-wheeling character. “What will I need a gun for?”

      Jakes laughed. “Heavens to Betsy, you babe in the woods. Do

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