Deathwish World

way of life.'

'But my mother is dead now.'

The Grafs usually expressionless face registered surprise. 'I didn't know that. I should have kept a closer check on you as the years have gone by. But still, I hadn't wished to interfere with your mother's plans for your education and upbringing. It was the only thing for which she would draw upon your father's accumulated fortune and, even then, frugally. I had planned to make contact with you upon its completion.'

'It's completed now,' Frank said flatly.

'I see. And the employment computers didn't select you for a position in whatever field you had selected?'

'That's correct. In any of the fields I selected.'

'Why not?' the Graf said bluntly.

'Because there are jobs in our economy for only about five percent of the population. But the fault is largely mine. I switched subjects too often. I started in aviation, but after a few years, I could see that it was becoming so highly auto-mated that there were going to be practically no positions available. So I switched to space and spent a few years cramming so that I might be chosen to go to Lagrange Five or the Asteroid Belt. But then the government began cutting back drastically on new space expenditures, so drastically that it was all but impossible to get out to the space islands. So then…'

'Very well. I can see your problem. So when you finished your schooling you were unable to find employment.'

'Actually, I've never quite finished it, though it became more difficult after my mother's death and my source of income was cut off. She never gave me access to my father's resources, hating them as she did. I'm not even sure that she could have. I don't know what the legal arrangements were. Since then, I've largely been on GAS. However, I've held a few small jobs out of the ken of the computers. In between I continued my studies as best I could.'

The Graf leaned back in the couch. 'You might consider a position in my organization, Franklin.'

Peter Windsor had been listening, his eyebrows a little high. Obviously, much of this was new to him but he learned best by listening.

Frank Pinell, who had been gaining confidence over the past fifteen minutes, shook his head at the old mercenary's words. He said, 'I have certain reservations. Nat Fraser and Colonel Panikkar gave me a rundown on the position you assume on the things you do in your, uh, organization. However, I suspect that toward the end, at least, my father might have had some of the same reservations. What did they call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century. I've read a little about Lee Christmas. I wonder if he ever went in for outright political assassination.'

'Possibly not. I checked on this early American mercenary after Fraulein Krebs gave me a bit of his background the other day. He was an uncouth, uneducated man—a railroad worker, I understand, before becoming a soldier of fortune. Undoubtedly, he had the usual prejudices of his time and his upbringing.'

The Graf's voice was becoming a bit impatient. 'See here, Franklin, you must realize that mankind accepts the fact of killing his fellow man under acceptable circumstances. What are acceptable circumstances is the bone of contention. Even the assassin can become a hero—given circumstances. Let us take a few examples from the history of your own very aggressive nation. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Colonel Travis, heroes of the Alamo, were not Texans. They were American adventurers; mercenaries. The Alamo was not garrisoned by Texans, it was garrisoned by men of many nations sent to that part of Mexico to seek their fortunes with their guns. The flag that flew over the Alamo was that of a troop of New Orleans volunteers. How many true Texans were there I do not know, but certainly Crockett was not one of them. He had been a Representative in Congress from Tennessee.'

'I didn't know that,' Frank murmured.

The Graf went on. 'A group of American mercenaries during the First World War formed the Lafayette Escadrille, a pursuit squadron in the French Air Force. By American law, this should have deprived them of American citizenship. Instead, as soon as the United States entered the conflict, they became heroes, and their squadron became part of the American forces. The Flying Tigers who fought as mercenaries under Chiang Kai-shek against the Japanese before Pearl Harbor? These men were all highly trained pilots from American army, navy, and air force schools, and they flew the latest in American fighters. They were paid for each plane they shot down, with American money funnelled to China. But they were mercenaries, and became American heroes, instead of losing their citizenship.

'So much for mercenaries; let us consider assassins. Suppose that in my own country the General Staff had been successful in assassinating Hitler. Would they not now be heroes?'

The young American was unhappy. He said, 'Panikkar and Nat Fraser gave me similar arguments. They didn't convince me.'

Peter Windsor said, 'Let's face reality. Man kills his fellow man for profit, don't you know? Take the owner of a colliery. The mine is unsafe because he has ignored expensive safety devices. It caves in and fifty of his miners are buried alive. Indirectly, he has killed them—for profit. Is he ever brought to trial? I fancy not. He is a pillar of the community.'

The Graf said, 'But enough of this for now. You must be

Reynolds with Dean Ing

tired, Franklin. We'll meet for dinner. No need for you to make a decision at this time.'

Evidently, he had signalled somehow since Sepp, the liveried butler, materialized. 'Bitte, Herr Graf,' he said, bowing.

'Sepp,' the elderly mercenary said, 'this is Mr. Franklin Pinell. See him to his suite. I suppose his bags have been delivered by now. And see that he is assigned a valet.'

'Ja, Herr Graf.' Sepp turned to Frank. 'Mr. Pinell?'

Frank nodded at Peter Windsor, came to his feet, and followed the stone-faced servant out a side door.

In the medieval stone corridor along which Frank followed Sepp, the elderly servitor said politely, 'If I may say so, sir, you resemble your father remarkably.'

'So everybody's been telling me. You knew my father?'

'I had the honor to serve with him in two campaigns, sir,' Sepp said, his voice politely inflectionless. 'Before I lost my leg.'

Involuntarily, Frank glanced down and now noticed that the servant limped lightly.

Frank said, 'I had gathered that the Graf made a policy of granting suitable compensations for his wounded men. Shouldn't you be living in comfortable retirement somewhere?'

'Well, yes, sir. But you see, I am wanted by both Interpol and the American LABI. I am safe here.'

'That you are,' Frank smiled. 'From what I've seen of it, this castle has many attributes of a resort. Shouldn't you be able to retire right here?'

They had reached a heavy wooden door and, for a moment, the servant stood with his hand on the knob. For the first time Frank saw a slight expression on the other's usually immobile face. It was ruefulness. He said, 'I suppose so, sir. However, the Herr Graf is used to my service. And… besides, it is of interest to be here in the center of things.'

He opened the door and they stepped inside. Frank's luggage lay in the living room's center. The suite was spacious—an extensive living room with ornate wooden furniture, a bedroom with an enormous canopied bed, a large bath, and what Frank assumed was a small study. He was again surprised at the art of whatever interior decorater had redesigned the donjon of the Wolfschloss. The man had been a genius in merging the old and new. That the rooms were those of a

Dark Ages castle was obvious, but they were modern in the best sense of comfort. That they had once been cold, damp, and grim could easily be imagined, but not with the modern conveniences added. The suite was absolutely palatial.

'It is satisfactory, sir?' Sepp said with polite anxiety.

At this height in the keep, it had undoubtedly never been necessary to continue the narrow bowmen's apertures that prevailed on the lower levels. The windows were spacious and looked out on a picturesque setting of Alps, glaciers, streams, and the upper reaches of the Rhine.

Frank shook his head. 'It's a beautiful suite, Sepp. What was this about a valet?'