get a bit of C2H5OH into my blood stream before I have to take over drilling knowledge and ethics into the little monsters.”
“What’s C2H5OH?” he asked her.
“Alcohol,” she told him. “Hmmm, the great columnist doesn’t seem to be up on his chemistry.”
Over her head he could see a small group beginning to gather about Nicolas Ferencsik who was talking to the ex-Russian hatchetman, Nuriyev, and evidently becoming animated about something.
“Talking about monsters,” Quint said, “we ought to get in on that argument over there. Everybody’s been telling me that fur is supposed to fly when our guest of honor meets some of the others here tonight.”
“Oh?” she frowned. “What has Professor Ferencsik got to do with monsters? I thought he won Nobel prizes and things like that.”
Quint chuckled. “Yes, but by performing such feats as transplanting the brain of a chimp into the skull of an orangutan.”
“But you can’t do that. They’re different species.”
Quint laughed. “Argue that with him. You’re the science teacher.”
Marylyn’s frown deepened. “You go ahead. I hate arguments. Perhaps I’ll avoid meeting the Professor. Besides, I wanted to see Marty Dempsey about something.”
“Okay, see you later, pet.” Quint took up a fresh drink from the bar and strolled toward the growing group centered about the Hungarian medical genius. He decided he would see more of Marylyn before the evening was over. The girl was beginning to grow on him, in spite of the fact that he preferred being the aggressor in the boy- meet-girl game.
Nicolas Ferencsik, up closer, turned out to be a smallish feisty man, in the vicinity of fifty-five though his energy belied his years. By the time Quint arrived, he’d already got to the point where his eyes were flashing the passion of his belief. His English was excellent.
“… man has gone beyond the days when he could afford to be split up into different camps, each at swords point with the others. State lines, national lines, countries, flags, kings and presidents are as antiquated as armies and navies. The modern world demands unity. We either unite or we die as a race. There can be no more countries. World Government cries to be born.”
Quint sipped his whisky. A little on the flowery side, he thought, but well stated.
The Hungarian was answered hesitantly by the heavy-set German Jose Garcia had pointed out earlier. What was the man’s name? Albrecht Stroehlein, or something like that. Quint had never heard of him. He couldn’t have been a very prominent Nazi party member.
Stroehlein said weakly, “But Herr Ferencsik, you seem to ignore the wave of nationalism that sweeps the world, eh? The African nations, the former Asian colonies. Each wants, most of all, independence as countries. They want no world government. They would distrust world government dominated by we whites, eh? They want no more domination by whites. No more colonialism.” The German blinked moist eyes as though apologetic for having a difference of opinion.
The Hungarian glared at him. “Do not call me Herr Ferencsik,” he snapped. “And do not speak to me of domination of the World Government by whites. I am no believer in Herrenvolk, sir. If the One World is ever to be established it must be a world in which race is meaningless.”
Vladimir Nuriyev, the Russian defector, who reminded Quint of no one so much as Basil Rathbone at his most sinister, said smoothly, “And what would the socio-economic system of this One World of yours be, Mr. Ferencsik? The feudalism of Saudi-Arabia, the ultra-capitalism of the United States, the pseudo-socialism of Sweden, the…”
Ferencsik snapped, “Certainly not Russia’s so-called communism, my friend. It would have to be, could only be, an economic system under which a man was rewarded according to his contributions.”
Somebody else who Quint didn’t make out, said, “Free Enterprise.”
The Hungarian, really getting into stride now, spun at that and sneered open contempt. “Do you labor under the illusion that under that gobblydygook term—gobblydygook, is that the word?”
“That’s the word,” Quint said wryly.
“Under that term, that there is truly reward according to a man’s contributions? In the United States…” the sneer was all but a snarl now “… did Thomas Edison die a wealthy man? Did Albert Einstein? And just what do your Barbara Huttons and Doris Dukes contribute that resulted in their being awarded so greatly?”
“Hey,” somebody in the rear protested in a slurring voice. “I thought you were a refugee from Budapest, or wherever. You still sound like a damn red to me.”
Bart Digby had drifted up while the discussion was in swing. Quint hadn’t seen him since they had left the elevator together. Now Digby said, “What I’d like to know is how you’re going to get around to starting this World Government bit. How’re you going to get such countries as France and Switzerland, Egypt and Israel, not to talk about the United States and Russia, to give up their national governments and all submit to this One World state of yours?”
“Hear, hear!” Quint said under his breath.
The controversial Hungarian scientist turned to the American. “I don’t deny that’s a most important question. But I would wager that already a majority of the world’s population wishes there was such a government and an end to all this international conflict. I am not a leader of men, myself. I realize my shortcomings in that regard. However, the new world cries to be born and somewhere, somehow, the spark will be struck which will start men to seek their salvation in World Government. Perhaps a new, great leader will come to the surface to point out the way.”
Quint said with a twist of mouth, “I’m afraid I don’t exactly trust these great leaders who come along. They’re too apt to turn out to be misleaders. We’ve had our bellyful, this last half-century of Hitlers, Stalins, Mussolinis, Maos, Titos and the rest of the great leader types.”
Ferencsik’s eyes gleamed but he nodded his head in abrupt jerks. “Your point is well taken, my friend. However, there are not only the Hitlers and Stalins. There have also been such leaders as Jesus, the Buddha, your own Jefferson, Gandhi, Solon of Greece, and Confucius of China. Our times call for a man as far above ordinary levels as these were above the norm of their days.”
“Superman!” the drunken voice that had earlier accused the Hungarian of being a communist, slurred from the audience that had gathered.
Nuriyev, his hands easily in his trouser pockets, said suavely, “And supermen are hard to come by in any age, are they not?”
“Wasn’t it Marx who said, the times produce the men?” the Hungarian snapped back at him. For some reason, Quint decided, the scientist was more irritated by the former communist agent than anyone else whose opinions differed from his own. “Very well, I will accept the term. The world needs a superman to lead it to the goal of World Government. I am of the opinion that such a superman will be found.”
“I still think the whole thing sounds like a red plot,” somebody growled.
“Oh, shut up,” a feminine voice rasped.
Quint decided the second tone indicated a wife had entered the fray. He also decided that he might as well take off. The argument from this point on was undoubtedly going to disintegrate into alcohol-inspired opinions.
He began to drift toward the bar, although his glass was still half filled. Bart Digby fell in step beside him.
Digby said, scowling, “What’d you think, uh, Quint? Is this Hungarian still a commie?”
Quint looked at him. “I didn’t know he ever was one. Just being a Hungarian doesn’t make you a communis. From the way he was talking, I’d say he was as anti-communist as I am. And that’s rather anti—though admittedly, not for the usual reasons.”
The other didn’t seem to get that. “How do you mean?”
Quint was inwardly amused. He said, “As a student, I decided to read Marx and Engels just because I was always hearing about them, but nobody seemed to have actually read what they had written. I had a hard time getting their books. Oh, you can get criticism of Marx, and criticism of criticism. But getting the original can be difficult. But I did. And I became anti-Soviet as a result. Poor old Marx must be spinning around in his grave like a whirling dervish at what’s going on in Russia, supposedly in his name.”
Bart Digby looked at him blankly, that I-don’t-know-if-you’re-kidding-or-not look on his face. Bart Digby wasn’t the type who took to joking on a political level, Quint decided.
