The First Theodore R. Cogswell MEGAPACK ®. Theodore r. Cogswell
had to go through it once—and somebody had to take care of us. It’s never pretty, but it’s just the way things are.”
Alan was just about to give up and go back in the room when he heard his uncle say, “This new grenade you have in production, it’s something special?”
“It was supposed to be,” said the visitor unhappily. “We figured it would be the hottest consumer item to hit the market in years.”
“What do you mean, ‘supposed to be’? Did some bugs show up after you got it into production?”
Mr. Flugnet shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with the grenade itself. It’ll knock out anything within a radius of ten feet and not even bother anybody standing just the other side of the blast area. We thought we had the perfect consumer item. No flying fragments to bother innocent producers, no danger of misfire. New Washington was so impressed that they gave us a heavy enough subsidy to make it possible for us to put three man hours in each one and still retail them for $4.27 a gross. And then…”
“Yes?” Alan’s uncle leaned forward eagerly in his chair.
For some reason or other, Mr. Flugnet changed the subject hurriedly. “What line are you in?”
“Small arms. But getting to those experimental models you’re looking for…
Mr. Flugnet wasn’t about to get back. “How’s production?” he asked.
Unwillingly, Alan’s uncle moved off in the new direction. “Not bad considering. We’re always the last to feel the pinch. Things are still tighter than I like, though. Shirey down the street got laid off at the burp gun plant last week and he doesn’t know when he’ll be taken back. I don’t see why the government doesn’t shorten the truce periods so as to give the kids more consuming time.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Mr. Flugnet pontifically. “If you increase consumption much over what it is now, you’ll decrease the number of consumers too fast. That causes overproduction, and pretty soon more factories start shutting down. Then bingo! we’ve got ourselves a fine recession.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” said Alan’s uncle slowly. “And after all, things aren’t too bad. Even if some of the arms plants do have to shut down once in a while, most of the producers do have jobs most of the time. And we are able to keep the population down to the point where the land that escaped dusting during the big war can produce enough food for everybody.”
One of Alan’s feet was going to sleep and the conversation didn’t make much sense to him, so he decided that now was as good a time to make his entrance as any.
“I found it,” he said, holding out the second sample.
“Took you long enough,” grumbled his uncle. Mr. Flugnet didn’t say anything, he just came over and took the box from Alan. Dumping the sphere that was inside out into the palm of his hand, he examined it closely.
“No soap,” he said wearily and handed it back. “That’s one of the regulars. Here, you can keep it”.
“Thanks,” Alan placed the little grenade carefully in his carrier. “I’ll need this tonight. We’re playing North and every little bit will help. Coach Blauman says that even if we haven’t much in the way of equipment, it’s the spirit that counts. He says that if we really get in there and fight we’ll be able to stop North cold.”
“That’s nice,” murmured Mr. Flugnet vaguely as he reached for his hat. He obviously had his mind on other things.
“Sorry the boy didn’t have what you were looking for,” said Alan’s uncle. “But probably the other men have rounded up the rest of them by now.”
Mr. Flugnet looked dubious. “I doubt it. Kids are like packrats. When Security finally broke Harris down—he’s the guy that’s responsible for this whole mess—he admitted to having made at least three hundred and slipping them into sample cases. As of an hour ago we’d recovered exactly thirty-seven.”
He caught himself with a start. “Shouldn’t be talking about it. Though I can’t see where it makes any difference now.” He let out a long sigh. “Well, you’re the last house on my list and I’ve done all that I can. Guess I’d better be going.” He picked up his truce hat and planted it firmly on his head.
“Guess I’d better be going too,” said Alan. “I’ve got to be getting over to the stadium to get dressed for the game.”
“Don’t rush off,” said Alan’s uncle. He didn’t intend to let the visitor escape until he found out exactly what it was that was causing him so much concern. “No, not you, Alan. You run on. I’m talking to Mr. Flugnet. Why not wait until the cease-fire siren sounds? It’s getting dark outside and some of the kids might take a potshot at you before they see your truce hat.”
“Thanks just the same, but—”
“Aw, stay! I’ll fix you a good stiff drink. You look as though you could use one.”
Mr. Flugnet hesitated and then sat down again. “I guess I could at that,” he said.
Alan’s uncle hurried over to the liquor cabinet and poured two long ones. After he’d handed a drink to Mr. Flugnet, he settled back in his own chair and said as casually as he could, “You were saying something about somebody named Harris who did something to some grenades and got hauled in by Security?”
Mr. Flugnet didn’t answer right away. Instead he took a long pull at his glass, coughed, and then took another. Alan looked at his watch and then started out of the room. He was almost to the door when his aunt said sharply, “Alan!”
He turned.
“If you get hit tonight, mind that you see that they do a proper job of patching you up at the aid station. I don’t want my sheets all messed up like last time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Alan said obediently. As he went out nobody said good bye. They were all waiting for Mr. Flugnet to say something.
Alan stopped automatically at the front door and made a quick check of the street through the periscope. Nothing seemed to be moving but he didn’t take any chances. Sliding the door open just wide enough to get through, he made a running dive for the communication trench. The kid across the street had got a sniper-scope for Christmas and a guy wasn’t even safe after dark.
The field lights were already on and the stadium a quarter full when Alan slipped into the locker room. He was ten minutes late and had to hurry with his dressing, but for once the coach didn’t bawl him out. Coach Blauman didn’t even notice him—Coach Blauman had troubles of his own. He was over in one corner telling them to Dan Ericson, the sports reporter for the Tribune who covered most of the high school events.
The coach was a fat, florid man, and there was a slight thickness to his speech that indicated that he had gotten to the bottle he kept in the back of his locker earlier than usual.
“You want a quote?” he snorted. “I’ll give you a quote. I’ll give you enough quotes to fill that whole damn fish-wrapper you call a magazine from front to back. You can put my picture on page one and put a great big “Coach Blauman says” right underneath it.”
Ericson gave a tired grin. “Go ahead, coach. What’s the beef for the evening?”
“That damn PTA, that’s what. I go to them and ask for four mortars, four stinking mortars, and all I get is the brush-off. Three thousand bucks they got salted away, and it’s all going for new body armor for the band. I say, ‘What’s the use of having a pretty band when the team’s so hard up for equipment that a bunch of sandlot grade school players could knock them over.’ So old Stevens gives me the fish eye and throws me a line about how it ain’t whether you win or lose but how you play the game.”
“Don’t let it get you down, Blauman,” said the reporter. “Think of all the character you’re building!”
Alan