Deathwish World

me. That leader of yours, that one who talked me out of the bomb shelter. He said you wouldn't kill me.'

'Comrade Ostrander knew you wouldn't be killed if the ransom was paid. But I doubt if he promised anything more. You have twenty-four hours, sir. If the fifty million pseudo-dollars is not forthcoming by that time, I am afraid that… that your life is forfeit.''

'Fifty… million… pseudo-dollars.'

'Yes, sir. Comrade Ostrander has already made the initial contact. The ransom is to be paid into a special numbered account in Tangier. And there must be guarantees that no attempt will be made to prosecute anyone. If such attempts are made, you will be, uh, eliminated.'

Harold Dunninger slumped back in his chair, his eyes wide. Betty would never permit such a sum to escape her hands. Yes, it was available. But she would never… not Betty. In spite of the fact that she had been bom into luxury, and certainly had lived in luxury, Betty was a compulsive pennypincher. She made a point of prowling the kitchen, enraged if the servants opened a bottle of wine for themselves. The allowance she doled out to the boys was a farce. Harold Dunninger augmented it secretly each week. Her pennypinching was proverbial. Fifty million pseudo-dollars? No. Never from Betty, even in the best of times.

Harold Dunninger said shakily, 'I'll take that drink.'

'Yes, sir.' Young Spaulding got up and went to the door, opened it, and stuck his head out, obviously speaking to a guard stationed in the hall.

Dunninger's mind raced. Or tried to. He had to get out of here somehow, within twenty-four hours. Was this kid armed? If so, was there any way to take his gun, and get through the guard which they obviously would have posted? He closed his eyes and groaned. Harold Dunninger was no muscle-bound hero. He'd let himself go to pot over the years. He'd never been much for sports, even as a youngster. And even if he was able to overwhelm Spaulding, there would be more of them beyond, downstairs—Men trained and experienced with guns, while he hardly knew enough to fire one. He closed his eyes in sick dismay, his stomach beginning to roil.

Tom Spaulding returned with a squat bottle and a glass and put them on the table before the captive.

Dunninger shakily took off the bottle's cap and poured. It was a bottle of his own prehistoric whiskey. It would seem that his kidnappers weren't above looting. He knocked back the spirits with a quick motion. He had to make some sort of plans.

The young man had seated himself again and was looking in compassion at the captive.

Dunninger said, 'Are you supposed to be seeing that I make no plans for escape?'

The other seemed embarrassed. 'Well, no, sir. It was my idea. It goes back to the old British and French army days of the late 18th century. All officers were gentlemen; they came from good families—aristocrats. If one was to be shot in the morning, a fellow officer was assigned to stay with him in his cell and, well, be with him. Take messages to his family or sweetheart, help him make out his will, if necessary. Talk with him. Possibly read the Bible with him. That sort of thing. Just, well, keep him company.'

Dunninger eyed him, even as he poured another stiff drink. 'Why'd they pick you?'

The boy looked embarrassed again. 'I suppose it's because I know you, sir. We come from the same background. My father was a close friend of yours.'

The older man was staring now. 'You're Pete Spaulding's boy? Why, I remember you now. Tommy Spaulding. I haven't seen you since you were about ten or eleven. A thin little fellow, always nervous.'

'Yes, sir. I remember you, too, Mr. Dunninger. Very clearly.'

'Look, call me Harold,' the other said. His voice had an edge of excitement now. 'Look, Tommy, I've got to get out of here. My wife'll never pay that ransom—never in a million years. We've got to figure some way of getting me out of here.'

The young man blinked and shook his head sadly. 'I'm afraid that's impossible.'

'But look, these people are killers. They're kidnappers. Mad dogs must be shot down on sight.'

Tom Spaulding was still shaking his head in rejection. 'No, sir, they're idealists. Don't you know whose hands you're in? We're the Nihilists.'

'We?'

'Yes, sir. You must realize, we don't have anything against you as an individual. We're opposed to the socioeconomic system you represent. We are going to change it.'

The tycoon closed his eyes once more and tried to wrench his mind into thought. He opened them again and said desperately, 'See here, boy. That sum your Comrade Ostrander demanded is ridiculous.'

'Yes, sir. It was purposely made so, to attract attention to your case.'

'It'll never be paid. But I'll tell you, Tommy, on my word of honor, that if you can get me out of here, I'll give you five million pseudo-dollars, all tax-free. All deposited to your account, no questions asked, say, in Switzerland or Nassau. My word of honor.'

'Sir,' the other said sadly, 'you don't understand. Even if I did need the money—and I don't—it wouldn't interest me. I'm a devoted member of the Nihilists, and though I'm sorry that you are in this position, I'm dedicated to ending this social system. I'm willing to participate in the liquidating of others, if required to accomplish our ends.'

Dunninger glowered at him. 'You're completely around the bend. You're crazy.'

'I don't think so, sir. The world's in need of change. The overwhelming majority of the race is living in misery and degradation.'

The tycoon said impatiently, 'What the hell do you think you'd replace our system with?'

'We differ on that question. You see, Nihilists don't ever expect to come to power ourselves. We're basically anti-organization, if you can comprehend that. We're against the status quo, but we don't offer a definitive alternative system. We believe production should be democratically owned and we believe in world government, but not of the present systems.'

Dunninger groaned in the face of what he thought sheer madness. 'But what do you think you're doing? You assassinate people, especially rich or powerful people. You commit arson and sabotage. What's that got to do with reforms? You're nothing but terrorists.'

'No, sir. Our basic goal is to spur the people into alterna-lives to capitalism and communism. Most people never consider the possibility of a basic change in their own system. The system tells them that what prevails has always been and will always be. They fail to realize that nothing changes as steadily as social systems.'

Dunninger was in despair. 'You'd prefer what they've got in the Soviet Complex?'

'We're against them both. In the West, production means are owned by a few private individuals. In the East, it is in the hands of the State. To the rank-and-file citizen, it makes comparatively little difference. In short, we're trying to goose the world's population into thinking about change.'

'So you're actually willing to murder me, to gain what you think are desirable ends.'

'Yes, sir, we are,' the boy said simply.

'It's not fair; I've never killed anybody in my life!'

The boy looked at him and took a deep, unhappy breath. 'Haven't you? Maybe you never pulled a trigger, but the blood on the hands of your social system is unbelievable. Millions have died due to pollution and disease brought about by your rampaging industry. Millions have died from poisonous foods and drugs that were continued because they made a profit. Why has cancer erupted geometrically over the last century and a half? Mr. Dunninger, you don't even know how many deaths you've caused.'

Dunninger tipped up the whiskey bottle once again. The boy was a wild-eyed unthinking fanatic. Given time, he might have been able to get through to him, convince him how wrong he was, how misguided. But he, Harold Dunninger, didn't have time. He had less than twenty-four hours now.

Harold Dunninger upended the bottle, killing it.

'Can you get me another one of these?' he slurred.

Chapter Thirteen: Roy Cos

Roy's secretary Mary Ann, publicity man Jet Peters, and writer Ferd Feldmeyer sat in a row on a couch before the Tri-Di screen in the luxurious winter villa of some absent northerner. The variable-image Tri-Di screen was set into the wall of the living room. At the moment, it was just large enough so that the people on lens were life-size. There were some uncanny attributes. Though the trio had been exposed to Tri-Di projections all their lives, the illusion was as though they could have spoken back and forth with Roy Cos and the others being shown.

The face of a well-known commentator was smiling as though earnest, sincere, and oh-so-friendly.

Mary Ann frowned, her plain face impatient. She said, 'You've got the wrong station, Ferd. That's Ken