“No,” Ronny said, “but you’ve made your point. There’s a lot of confusion on just what communism is.”
The Indian was nodding. “Yes. Well, the crisscross on this planet is a doozy. You might call it industrial feudalism. Kind of a classical capitalism gone to seed. Kind of free enterprise without either freedom, or, except for a handful, any enterprise. You see, they got to the point where the wealth of Phrygia is in the hands of less than one percent of the population. The means of production, distribution, communications, the farms, the mines, the whole shebang—all owned and controlled by comparatively few families.”
Ronny grunted. “In any society, a good man gets to the top.”
“Or loses his scalp trying,” Birdman agreed. “If he can’t, he tries to change the society. Well, they have one fairly workable way of getting around that on Phrygia. Any real stute that comes along, gets adopted into one of the big families. The Romans used to do the same thing; Octavius was an adopted son of Caesar.
“But to get on with it. There’s evidently no end to the desire for wealth and the power it brings. A millionaire wants to become a billionaire and a billionaire wonders how it’d be to have a trillion. Far, far beyond the point where his own needs are completely satisfied, the stute with a power complex continues to accumulate more wealth, more power. It might not make sense to you and me, but there it is. Well, Baron Wyler has about outgrown Phrygia. He’s looking for new worlds to conquer, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t expect to allow United Planets to stand in his way. It fact, it didn’t even start with the present Baron. The dream had evidently been in his family, and probably other industrial feudalistic families here, for several generations. Interplanetary News is just one of the projects designed to help pave the way.”
Ronny was staring at him.
The Indian chuckled sourly. “Sounds unbelievable, eh? Well, in spite of the far-out nature of this super-loose confederation of ours, United Planets is still basically a republic. Whatever the home government of each planet, in the UP it has one voice, one vote, no more. But there’s no particular reason why man, in his eruption into space, has to remain a republican. Given a strong enough ambition on the part of a few fellas like our good Baron, and what’s to prevent an empire from being established?”
Ronny was shaking his head. “Too many would fight.”
The other nodded in agreement. “That’s what’s baffled me. Something is going on. Something the Baron is counting upon to give him such an edge over the other strong worlds, which would ordinarily resist his ambitions, that he’d prevail.”
Ronny Bronston thought about it for a long moment, staring down into his glass. He said finally, “I suppose it’s about time I got in touch with this Baron Wyler. Have you got a Section G communicator handy?”
“Over there.”
Ronny sat at the indicated desk. The device was about the size of a woman’s vanity case, and was propped up now so that the small screen was immediately before the operative. He activated it.
“Ronald Bronston,” he said. “I want to report to Supervisor Jakes, soonest.”
He sat there, saying nothing, until Sid Jakes’ grinning face appeared on the screen.
“Hi, Ronny.” He chuckled. “On Phrygia, eh? How’s that redskin coming along?”
Ronny said, “That redskin is evidently a one-man task force. He’s dug up the fact that Baron Wyler controls Interplanetary News and is evidently prettying up a scheme to unite UP…”
“Well, isn’t that what we want to do?”
“… under his leadership. Possibly, I should say, under his dictatorship.”
The supervisor scoffed. “Neat trick, if he could pull it off.”
“Evidently, he has some reason to believe he can.”
Sid Jakes looked at him thoughtfully. “Get a complete report on this, soonest, Ronny.”
“Phil Birdman’s just about got it finished. Meanwhile, would it be possible for you to put through an order making me a plenipotentiary extraordinary from UP to the Supreme Commandant of Phrygia?”
“Have you gone drivel-happy, old boy?”
“No. The Baron’s got his heavies out looking for me. I want to face him, but not on the kind of basis he evidently has in mind. I want some weight to throw around.”
Jakes thought about it some more. “All right. Within twenty-four hours, you’ll be a special mission from the President of UP to Baron Wyler. You’ll have to play it from there. Dream up your own idea of what the mission is. Wyler won’t dare touch you, with such a commission.” He grinned. “This oughta be a neat trick.”
He faded from the screen.
Ronny turned back to his companion.
Birdman said, “I’m not sure I like this. Wyler’s feeling his oats. He’s getting near the point where he’s ready to take action. I don’t think he’s afraid of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs.”
Ronny shrugged. “The way you brought me here, to his hideout, I couldn’t find it again. So even though he slips me Scop, I can’t betray you. For myself, I’m no big loss. If I don’t get away from him, again, there’s not much he can get out of me that he doesn’t already know. Now, let’s get about the job of outfitting me properly to be a plenipotentiary from the President to the Baron. Sid is going to radio through to Wyler that I am to appear.”
VII
If Ronny Bronston had thought the surface buildings of the nadirscraper, which housed the Interplanetary News in Greater Washington, were ostentatious, he could only admit he had had little upon which to base his opinion—comparatively.
Baron Wyler’s official residence was some ten kilometers outside the Phrygia city limits. At first, the Section G agent couldn’t place the theme; but it began to come to him, when his limousine—driven by a United Planets Space Forces marine, in dress uniform, with another seated beside him—was stopped at a gate by a squad of men in an armor of yesteryear and in short linen tunics. They were armed with spears, swords buckled to their sides.
The driver said from the side of his mouth, “You’re getting the full official greeting, sir. Ordinarily, we could’ve driven inside.”
Six of the guards stood at rigid attention, spear butts grounded. An officer, his breastplate of gold, approached the heavy hovercar, and came to the salute.
He said, “Hail the Plenipotentiary from the United Planets!”
Maintaining his dignity, Ronny nodded.
The officer said, “If your Excellency will alight, you will be conducted to audience with the Supreme Commandant.”
Evidently, his two marines were going to be left here at the gate. Ronny mentally shrugged. He was already in the Baron’s hands. Let them bounce the ball. He left the car.
In a clatter and a small cloud of dust, a chariot, pulled by three enormous white horses, came speeding forth. Ronny blinked at it. He had seen chariots in illustrations, and in historic Tri-Di shows, but never in actuality.
The driver pulled the horses to a rearing halt, only a few feet from him.
The officer said, not a flicker of expression on his face, “If His Excellency will mount…”
Ronny Bronston looked at his marines from the side of his eyes. They remained expressionless as well. He wondered vaguely if they would have pulled this gimmick had he been an eighty year old man. Well, there was nothing for it. He jumped up into the wheeled vehicle and grasped the edge, next to the driver.
They were off in a clatter.
The setting was beginning to come to him. The double-headed ax motif, the bulls in fresco and statuary. Once, as a boy, his father had taken him to the so-called Palace of Minos, at Knossos on Crete. Baron Wyler had obviously drawn upon the reconstructions of Sir Arthur Evans in building his residence. The British archaeologist had notoriously exercised his imagination in the reconstruction; but many a Cretean must have turned in his grave at this version of a palace of the four thousand year old civilization.
They clattered up a broad ramp, Ronny Bronston hanging on for life, and came to a rearing halt before an
