The Adventurer by C.

M.

Cornblooth.

For every evil under the sun, there's an answer.

It may be a simple, direct answer.

It may be one that takes years and seems unrelated to the problem.

But there's an answer of a kind.

President Fulsom the twenty fourth said petulantly to his Secretary of the Treasury.

Blow me to hell, banister, if I understood a single word of that, why can't I buy the Nicolaedys collection, and don't start with the rediscount and the series w business again?

Just tell me why, the Secretary of the Treasury said, with an air of apprehension and a threadlike feeling across his throat.

It boils down to no money, mister president.

The President was too engrossed in thoughts of the marvelous collection to fly into a rage.

It's such a bargain, he said, mournfully, and archaic.

Henry Moore figure really too big to finger.

But I'm no culture stop, thank god, and fifteen early Morrisons.

And I can't begin to tell you what else.

He looked hopefully at the Secretary of Public Opinion.

Mightn't I seize it for the public good or something?

The Secretary of Public opinion, shook his head.

His pose was gruffly professional.

Not a chance, mister President.

We'd never get away with it, the art lovers would scream to high heaven, I suppose.

So why isn't there any money?

He had swiveled dangerously on the Secretary of the Treasury again, Sir, purchases of the new series w bondish you have lagged badly because potential buyers have been attracted to stop it, stop it, stop it.

You know I can't make head or tail of that stuff.

Where's the money going, the Director of the Budget said cautiously, mister President.

During the biennium just ending, the Department of Defense accounted for seventy eight percent of expenditures.

The Secretary of Defense growled, Now wait a minute, Felder, we were voted.

The President interrupted, raging weakly.

Oh you rascals.

My father would have known what to do with you.

But don't think I can't handle it.

Don't think you can hoodwink me.

He punched a button ferociously.

His silly face was contorted with rage, and there was a certain tension on all the faces around the cabinet table.

Pannell slid down abruptly in the walls, revealing grim faced secret servicemen.

Each cabinet officer was covered by at least two automatic rifles.

Take that that traitor away, the President yelled.

His finger pointed at the Secretary of Defense, who slumped over the table sobbing.

Two secret servicemen half carried him from the room.

President fulsom the twenty fourth leaned back, thrusting out his lower lip.

He told the Secretary of the Treasury, get me the money for the Nicoliet's collection.

Do you understand?

I don't care how you do it.

Get it?

He glared at the Secretary of Public Opinion.

Have you any comments?

No, mister President, all right.

Then the President unbent and said plaintively, I don't see why you all can't be more reasonable.

I'm a very reasonable man.

I don't see why I can't have a few pleasures along with my responsibilities.

Really I don't, and I'm sensitive.

I don't like these scenes very well.

That's all.

The cabinet meeting is adjourned.

They rose and left silently in the order of their seniority.

The President noticed that the panels were still down and pushed the button that raised them again and hid the granite faced secret service men.

He took out of his pocket a late Morrison fingering piece and turned it over in his hand, a smile of relaxation and bliss spreading over his face.

Such amusing textual contrast, such unexpected variations on the classic sequences.

The cabinet lest The Secretary of Defense was holding a rump meeting in an untapped corner of the White House Gymnasium.

God, the Secretary of State, said, whitefaced.

Poor old Willie, the professionally gruff Secretary of Public Opinion, said we should murder the bastard.

I don't care what happens, the Director of the Budget said, dryly, we all know what would happen.

President fulsome the twenty fifth would take office.

No, we've got to keep plugging as before.

Nothing short of the invincible can topple the Republic.

What about a war, the Secretary of Commerce demanded fiercely, we've no proof that our program will work.

What about a war, state said wearily, Not while there's a balance of power, my dear man.

The low callisto question proved that the Republic in the Soviet fell all over themselves, trying to patch things up as soon as it seemed like there would be real shooting fulsome the twenty fourth and his excellency Premier Yersinsky know at least that much.

The Secretary of the Treasury said, what would you all think of Steiner for defense?

The Director of the budget was astonished.

Would he take it?

Treasury cleared his throat.

As a matter of fact, I asked him to stop by right about now.

He hurled a medicine ball into the budgetary gut, who said the director, you bastard.

Steiner would be perfect.

He runs standards like a watch.

He treacherously fired the medicine ball at the Secretary of Raw Materials, who plannedly caught it and slammed it back.

Here he comes, said the Secretary of Raw Materials.

Steiner, come and sweat some oleo off.

Steiner ambled over a squat man in his fifties and said, I don't mind if I do.

Where's Willie?

State said the President unmasked him as a trader.

He's probably been executed by now.

Steiner looked grim and grimmerd Yet, when the Secretary of the Treasury said, deadpan, we want to propose you for defense, I'm happy in standard, Steiner said safer too.

The man's father took an interest in science, But the man never comes around.

Things are very quiet.

Why don't you invite Wench from the National Arc Commission.

It wouldn't be much of a change for the worse for him, no brains, the Secretary for Raw Materials said, briefly.

Heads up.

Steiner caught the ball and slugged it back at him.

What good are brains?

He asked, quietly, Close the ranks, gentlemen, states said, these long shots are too hard on my arms.

The ranks closed, and the cabinet told Steiner what good were brains?

He ended by accepting the Moon is all Republic, Mars is all Soviet, Titan is all Republic, Ganymede is all Soviet.

But Low and Callisto, by the Treaty of Greenwich, are half in half Republic and Soviet.

Down the main street of the principal settlement on Low runs an invisible line.

On one side of the line, the principal settlement is known as New Pittsburgh.

On the other side, it's known as Nisney.

Magnetogorsk into a miner's home in New Pittsburgh one day, an eight year old boy named Grayson staggered bleeding from the head.

His eyes were swollen, almost shut.

His father lurched to his feet, knocking over a bottle.

He looked stupidly at the bottle, set it upright, too late to save much of the alcohol, and then stared fixedly at the boy.

See what you made me, do, you little bastard?

He growled, and fetched the boy a clout on his bleeding head that sent him spinning against the wall of the hut.

The boy got up slowly and silently.

There seemed to be something wrong with his left arm, and glowered at his father.

He said nothing.

Fighting again, the father said in a would be fierce voice.

His eyes fell under the peculiar fire in the boy's stare, damn fool.

A woman came in from the kitchen.

She was tall and thin.

In a flat voice, she said to the man, get out of here.

The man hiccuped and said, your brats spilled my bottle.

Gimme a dollar.

In the same flat voice, I have to buy food, I said, gimme a dollar.

The man slapped her face it did not change, and wrenched a small purse from the string that suspended it around her neck.

The boy suddenly was a demon flying at his father with fists and teeth.

It lasted only a second or two.

The father kicked him into a corner, where he lay still, glaring, wordless and dry eyed.

The mother had not moved, her husband's hand mark still red on her face when he hulked out, clutching the money bag.

Missus Grayson at last crouched in the corner with the eight year old boy, little Tommy.

She said, softly, my little Tommy, did you cross the line again?

He was blubbering into her arms hysterically as she caressed him.

At last he was able to say, I didn't cross the line, mom, not this time.

It was in school.

They said our name was really Krasinsky.

God damn him.

The boy shrieked.

They said his grandfather was named Krasinsky, and he moved over the line and changed his name to Grayson.

God damn him doing that to us, now, Darling, his mother said, caressing him, now Darling, His trembling began to ebb.

She said, let's get the spools, Tommy.

You mustn't fall behind in school.

You owe that to me, don't you, Darling, Yes, ma'am, he said.

He threw his spindly arms around her and kissed her.

Get out the spools, we'll show him.

I mean them.

President Fulsome the twenty fourth lay on his death bed feeling no pain, mostly because his personal physician had pumped him full of morphine.

Doctor Barnes sat by the bed, holding the presidential wrist and waiting, occasionally nodding off and recovering with a belligerent stare around the room.

The four wire service men didn't care whether he fell asleep or not.

They were worriedly discussing the nature and habits of the president's first born, who would shortly succeed to the highest office in the Republic.

A firebrand, they tell me.

The ap man said, unhappily.

Firebrands.

I don't mind.

The up man said, he can send out all the inflammatory he notes he wants, just as long as he isn't a fiend for exercise.

I'm not as young as I once was.

You boys wouldn't remember the old president Fulsome the twenty second he used to do point to point hiking.

He worshiped old Fdr.

The ins man said, lowering his voice.

Then he was worshiping the wrong Roosevelt.

Teddy was the athlete.

Doctor Barnes started, dropped the presidential wrist and held a mirror to the mouth for a moment.

Gentlemen, he said, the president is dead.

Okay, the ap man said, let's go, boys, I'll send in the flash U P you go cover the College of Electors.

I n S get on to the president elect trib collect some interviews and background.

The door opened abruptly.

A colonel of infantry was standing there, breathing hard with an automatic rifle at port.

Is he dead?

He asked yes.

The ap man said, if you'll let me pass, Nobody leaves the room.

The colonel said grimly, I represent General Slocum, acting President of the Republic.

The College of Electors is acting now to ratify.

A burst of gunfire caught the colonel in the back.

He spun and fell with a single, hoarse cry.

More gunfire sounded through the White House.

A secret serviceman ducked his head through the door.

President's dead.

You boys, stay put.

We'll have this thing cleaned up in an hour.

He vanished.

The doctor sputtered his alarm, and the newsmen ignored him with professional poise.

The ap man asked, now, who's Slocum defense command?

I N s said, I remember him three stars.

He headed up the tactical airborne force out in Kansas four five years ago.

I think he was retired since then.

A phosphor's grenade crashed through the window and exploded with a globe of yellow flame the size of a basketball.

Dense clouds of phosphorus pentoxide gushed from it, and the sprinkler system switched on, drenching the room.

Come on, hacked the ap man, and they scrambled from the room and slammed the door.

The doctor's coat was burning in two or three places, and he was wretching feebly on the corridor floor.

They tore his coat off and flung it back into the room.

The up man, swearing horribly, dug a sizzling bit of phosphorus from the back of his hand with a pen knife and collapsed sweating.

When it was out.

The ins man passed him a flask, and he gurgled down half a pint of liquor.

Who flang that brick, he asked, faintly.

Nobody.

The ap man said, gloomily, that's the hell of it.

None of this is happening, just the way that Taft the pretender never happened.

In O three, just the way the Pentagon mutiny never happened in sixty seven sixty eight, the up Man said, faintly, it didn't happen in sixty eight, not sixty seven.

The ap man smashed a fist into the palm of his hand and swore, God damn.

He said something I'd like to He broke off and was bitterly silent.

The up Man must have been a little dislocated with shock and quite drunk to talk the way he did me too, He said, like to tell the story.

Maybe it was sixty seven, not sixty eight.

I'm I'm not sure now, can't write it down, so the details get lost.

And then after a while it didn't happen at all.

Revolution haud be a good deal, But it takes people to make revolution.

People with eyes and ears and memories.

We make things not happen, and we make people not see and not hear.

He slumped back against the corridor wall, nursing his burned hand.

The others were watching him, very scared.

Then the ap man caught sight of the Secretary of Defense striding down the corridor, flanked by secret servicemen, Mister Steiner.

He called, what's the picture.

Steiner stopped breathing heavily and said, Slocum's barricaded in the Oval study.

They don't want to smash in.

He's about the only one left.

There were only fifty or so.

The acting President's taken charge at the study.

You want to come along, They did, and even hauled the up man after them.

The acting President, who would be president fulsome the twenty fifth, as soon as the Electoral College got around to it, had his father's fail, the petulant lip, the soft jowl on a hard young body.

He also had an auto rifle ready to fire from the hip.

Most of the cabinet was present.

When the Secretary's defense arrived.

He turned on him Steiner, He said, nastily, can you explain why there should be a rebellion against the Republic in your department?

Mister President, Steiner said, Slocum was retired on my recommendation two years ago.

It seems to me that my responsibility ended there and security should have taken over the president.

Alec's finger left the trigger of the auto rifle, and his lip drew in a little.

Quite so, he said curtly, and turned to the door.

Slocumb, he shouted, come out of there.

We can use gas if we want.

The door opened unexpectedly, and a tired looking man with three stars on each shoulder stood there bare handed.

All right, he said, drearily.

I was fool enough to think something could be done about the regime, But you fat faced imbeciles are going to go on and on.

And the stutter of the auto rifle cut him off.

The President Elect's knuckles were white as he clutched the piece's forearm and grip.

The torrent of slugs continued to hack and plow through the General's body until the magazine was empty.

Burn that, he said, curtly, turning his back on it.

Doctor Barnes, come here.

I want to know about my father's passing.

The doctor, horse and red eyed from the whiff of phosphorus smoke, spoke with him.

The up man had sagged drunkenly into a chair, but the other newsmen noted that Doctor Barnes glanced at them as he spoke in a confidential murmur.

Thank you, doctor, the President elect said.

At last, decisively, He gestured to a secret serviceman, take those traitors away.

They went numbly.

The Secretary of State cleared his throat mister President, he said, I'd take this opportunity to submit the resignations of myself and fellow cabinet members according to custom.

That's all right, the President elect said, you may as well stay on.

I intend to run things myself anyway.

He hefted the auto rifle.

You, he said to the Secretary of Public Opinion, you have some work to do.

Have the memory of my father's artistic preoccupations obliterated as soon as possible.

I wish the Republic to assume a warlike posture.

Yes, what is it?

A trembling messenger said, mister President, I have the honor to inform you that the College of Electors has elected you President of the Republic unanimously.

Cadet fourth classman Thomas Grayson lay on his bunk and sobbed in an agony of loneliness.

The letter from his mother was crumpled in his hand.

Prouder than the words can tell of your appointment to the Academy, Darling, I hardly knew my grandfather, but I know that you will serve as brilliantly as he did to the eternal credit of the Republic.

You must be brave and strong, for my sake, he would have given everything he had or ever could hope to have to be back with her and away from the bullying, sneering fellow cadets of the corps.

He kissed the letter and then hastily shoved it under his mattress.

As he heard footsteps, he popped to a brace, but it was only his room mate, Ferguson.

Ferguson was from Earth and rejoiced in the lighter lunar gravity, which was punishment to Grayson's low bred muscles.

Rest Mister Ferguson grinned, thought it was night inspection.

Any minute now, they're down the hall.

Let me tighten your bunk or you'll be in trouble.

Tightening the bunk, he pulled out the letter and said, cavishly, aha, who is she?

And opened it.

When the cadet officers reached the room, they found Ferguson on the floor being strangled black in the face by spidery little Grayson.

It took all three of them to pull him off.

Ferguson went to the infirmary and Grayson went to the commandant's office.

The commandant glared at the cadet from under the most spectacular pair of eyebrows in the service.

Cadet Grayson, he said, explain what occurred, Sir, Cadet Ferguson began to read a letter from my mother without my permission that is not accepted by the Corps as grounds for mayhem.

Do you have anything further to say?

Sir?

I lost my temper.

All I thought of was it was an act of disrespect to my mother and somehow to the Core and the Republic too, that Cadet Ferguson was dishonoring the Corps.

Bush Wi, the commander thought, a snow job and a crude one.

He studied the youngster.

He had never seen such a brace from a low bred fourth classman.

It must be torture to muscles not yet toughened up to even lunar gravity.

Five minutes more and the boy would have to give way and serve him right for showing off.

He studied Grayson's folder.

It was too early to tell about academic work, but the fourth classman was a bear or a fool for extra duty.

He had gone out for half a dozen teams and applied for membership in the Exacting Math Club and Writing Club.

The Commandant glanced up Grayson was still in his extreme brace.

The commandant suddenly had the queer idea that Grayson could hold it until it killed him.

One hundred hours of pack drill, he barked, to be completed before quarter term.

Cadet Grayson, if you succeed in walking off your tours, remember that there is a tradition of fellowship in the corps, which its members are expected to observe.

Dismissed after Grayson's steel sharp salute and exit, the commander dug deeper into the folder.

Apparently there was something wrong with the boy's left arm, but it had been passed by the examining team that visited Low.

Most unusual, most irregular, but nothing could be done now about it.

The President, softer now in body than on his election day and infinitely more cautious, snapped, It's all very well to create an incident, but where's the money to come from?

Who wants the rest of Low anyway?

And what will happen if there's war?

Treasury said, the hoarders will supply the money, mister President a system of percentage bounties for persons who report kurrent hoarders, and then enforced purchase of a bond issue raw materials said, we need that iron, mister President, We need it desperately, state said.

All our evaluations indicate that the Soviet Premiere would consider nothing less than armed invasion of his continental borders as occasion for all out war.

The consumer goods party in the Soviet has gained immensely during the past five years, and of course their armaments have suffered.

Your shrewd directive to put the Republic in a warlike posture has borne fruit, mister President.

President fulsome the twenty fifth studied them narrowly.

To him, the need for a border incident culminating in a forced purchase of Soviet low did not seem as pressing as they thought.

But they were, after all, specialists, and there was no conceivable way that they could benefit from it personally.

The only alternative was that they were offering their professional advice, and that it would be best to heat it.

Still, there was a vague nagging something nonsense, he decided.

The spy dossiers on his cabinet showed nothing but the usual.

One had been blackmailed by an actress after an affair and railroaded her off of the earth.

Another had a habit of taking bribes to advance favored sons in civil and military service, and so on.

The Republic could not suffer at their hands.

The Republic and the dynasty were impregnable.

You simply spied on everybody, including the spies, and ordered summary executions, often enough to show that you meant it, and kept the public ignorant, deaf, dumb, blind, ignorant.

The spy system was simplicity itself.

You had only to let things get as tangled and confused as possible until nobody knew who was who.

The executions were literally no problem, for guilt or innocence made no matter, and mind control when there were four newspapers, six magazines, and three radio and television stations was a job for a handful of clerks.

No, the cabinet couldn't be getting away with anything.

The system was unbeatable.

President Fulsom the twenty fifth said, very well, have it done.

Missus Grayson, widow of New Pittsburgh, Low disappeared one night.

It was in all the papers and on all the broadcasts.

Some time later she was found dragging herself back across the line between Nisney, Magneto, Gorsk and New Pittsburgh in sorry shape.

She had a terrible tale to tell about what she had suffered at the hands and so forth of the Nisney Magneto Gorsniks.

A diplomatic note from the Republic to the Soviet was answered by another note, which was answered by the dispatch of the Republic's first fleet to Low, which was answered by the dispatch of the soviets first and fifth fleets to Low.

The Republic's first fleet blew up the customary deserted target hulk fulminated over a sneak sabotage attack and moved in its destroyers.

Battle was joined, and Sint Thomas Grayson took over the command of his royer when its captain was killed on his bridge.

An electrified crew saw the strange, brooding youngster perform prodigies of skill and courage and responded to them.

In one week of diyssultory action, the battered destroyer had accounted for seven Soviet destroyers and a cruiser.

As soon as this penetrated to the flagship, Grayson was decorated and given a flotilla.

His weird magnetism extended to every officer and man aboard the seven craft.

They struck like phantoms, cutting out cruisers and battle wagons in wild, unorthodox actions that couldn't have succeeded, but did every time.

Grayson was badly wounded twice, but his driving, nervous energy carried him through.

He was decorated again and given the battle wagon of an ailing four striper.

Without orders, he touched down on the Soviet side of Low, led out a landing party of marines and blue jackets, cut through two regiments of Soviet infantry, and returned to his battle wagon with prisoners.

The top civilian military administrators of Soviet Low.

They discussed him nervously aboard the flagship.

He has a mystical quality, Admiral.

His men would follow him into an atomic furnace, and I almost believe he could bring them through safely if he wanted to.

The laugh was nervous.

He doesn't look like much, but when he turns on the charm, watch out he's He's a winner.

Now, I wonder what I mean by that.

I know what you mean.

They turn up every so often, people who can't be stopped, people who have everything.

Napoleon's Alexander's, Stalin's up from nowhere, Suliman Hitler fulsome one Jengis Khan.

Well, let's get it over with.

They tugged at their gold braided jackets and signaled the honor guard.

Grayson was piped aboard, received another decoration and another speech.

This time he made his speech in return.

President, also the twenty fifth, not knowing what else to do, had summoned his cabinet.

Well, he rasped at the Secretary of Defense.

Steiner said, with a faint shrug, mister President, there's nothing to be done.

He has the fleet, he has the broadcasting facilities, he has the people.

People, snarled the President.

His finger stabbed at a button, and the wall panels snapped down to show the secret service men standing in their niches.

The finger shot tremulously out at Steiner.

Kill that traitor, he raved.

The Chief of the Details said uneasily, mister President, we were listening to Grayson before we came on duty.

He says he's de facto president.

Now kill him.

Kill him.

The Chief went doggedly on and we liked what he had to say about the republic.

And he said citizens of the Republic shouldn't take orders from you, and he'd relieve you.

The President fell back, Grayson walked in, wearing his plane ensign uniform and smiling faintly.

Admirals and four stripers flanked him.

The chief of the detail said, mister Grayson, are you taking over?

The man in the ensign's uniform said gravely yes, and just call me Grayson.

Please, the titles come later.

You can go now.

The chief gave a pleased grin and collected his detail.

The rather slight, youngish man who had something wrong with one arm, was in charge.

Complete charge.

Grayson said, mister Fulsom, you are relieved of the presidency.

Captain take him out, and he finished with a whimsical shrug.

A portly four striper took Fulsom by one arm, like a drugged man.

The deposed president let himself be led out.

Grayson looked around the table.

Who are you, gentlemen?

They felt his magnetism like the hum when you pass a power station.

Steiner was the spokesman Grayson.

He said, soberly, we were Fulsom's cabinet.

However, there is more that we have to tell you alone, if you will allow it, very well, gentlemen.

Admirals and captains backed out, looking concerned.

Steiner said Grayson.

The story goes back many years.

My predecessor, William Malvern, was determined to overthrow the regime, holding that it was an affront to the human spirit.

There have been many such attempts, all have broken up on the rocks of espionage, terrorism and opinion control, the three weapons which the regime holds firmly in its hands.

Malvern tried another approach than espionage versus espionage, terrorism versus terrorism, and opinion control versus opinion control.

He determined to use the basic fact that certain men make history, that there are men born to be mold breakers.

They are the Phillips of Macedon, the Napoleons, Stalins and Hitler's, the Sulimans, the adventurers.

Again and again they flash across history, bringing down an ancient empire, turning ordinary soldiers of the line into unkillable demons of battle, uprooting cultures, breathing new life into moribund peoples.

There are common denominators among all the adventurers.

Intelligence.

Of course, other things are more mysterious, but are always present.

They are foreigners, Napoleon, the Corsican, Hitler, the Austrian Stalin, the Georgian Philip, the Macedonian.

Always there is an Oedipus complex.

Always there is physical deficiency, Napoleon's stature, Stalin's withered arm, and yours.

Always there is a minority disability, real or fancied.

This is a shock to you, Grayson, but you must face it.

You were manufactured.

Malvern packed the cabinet with the slyest double dealers he could find, and they went to work.

Eighty six infants were planted on the outposts of the republican simulated family environments.

Your mother was not your mother, but one of the most brilliant actresses ever to drop out of sight on Earth.

You're intel, diligence, heredity was so good that we couldn't turn you down for lack of a physical deficiency.

We withered your arm with gamma radiation.

I hope you will forgive us.

There was no other way.

Of the eighty six.

You are the one that worked.

Somehow.

The combination for you was minutely different from all the other combinations genetically or environmentally, and it worked.

That is all we were.

After the mold has been broken, you know now what you are let come, whatever chaos is to come.

The dead hand of the past no longer lies on.

Grayson went to the door and beckoned.

Two captains came in.

Steiner broke off his speech, as Grayson said to them, these men deny my Godhood.

Take them out, and he finished with a whimsical shrug.

Yes, your Divinity, said the captains, without a trace of humor in their voices.

And of the Adventurer by C.

M.

Kornbluth