Read Online The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction MEGAPACK® by Robert Silverberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Silverberg
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appreciate a good confidence man, the way some people appreciate fine wine. But I wish I had left Ildwar Gorb back on Ghryne instead of signing him up with us.
Yesterday he stopped by at my office after we had closed down for the day. He was wearing that pleasant smile he always wears when he’s up to something.
He accepted a drink, as usual, and then he said, “Jim, I was talking to Lawrence R. Fitzgerald yesterday.”
“The little Regulan? The green basketball?”
“That’s the one. He tells me he’s only getting fifty dollars a week. And a lot of the other boys here are drawing pretty low pay too.”
My stomach gave a warning twinge. “Mike, if you’re looking for a raise, I’ve told you time and again you’re worth it to me. How about twenty a week?”
He held up one hand. “I’m not angling for a raise for me, Jim.”
“What then?”
He smiled beatifically. “The boys and I held a little meeting yesterday evening, and we—ah—formed a union, with me as leader. I’d like to discuss the idea of a general wage increase for every one of the exhibits here.”
“Higgins, you blackmailer, how can I afford—”
“Easy,” he said. “You’d hate to lose a few weeks’ gross, wouldn’t you?”
“You mean you’d call a strike?”
He shrugged. “If you leave me no choice, how else can I protect my members’ interests?”
After about half an hour of haggling, he sweated me into an across-the-board increase for the entire mob, with a distinct hint of further raises to come. But he also casually let me know the price he’s asking to call off the hounds. He wants a partnership in the Institute; a share in the receipts.
If he gets that, it makes him a member of management, and he’ll have to quit as union leader. That way I won’t have him to contend with as a negotiator.
But I will have him firmly embedded in the organization, and once he gets his foot in the door, he won’t be satisfied until he’s on top—which means when I’m out.
But I’m not licked yet! Not after a full lifetime of conniving and swindling! I’ve been over and over the angles and there’s one thing you can always count on—a trickster will always outsmart himself if you give him the chance. I did it with Higgins. Now he’s done it with me.
He’ll be back here in half an hour to find out whether he gets his partnership or not. Well, he’ll get his answer. I’m going to affirm, as per the escape clause in the standard exhibit contract he signed, that he is no longer of scientific value, and the Feds will pick him up and deport him to his home world.
That leaves him two equally nasty choices.
Those fake documents of his were good enough to get him admitted to Earth as a legitimate alien. How the World Police get him back there is their headache—and his.
If he admits the papers were phony, the only way he’ll get out of prison will be when it collapses of old age.
So I’ll give him a third choice: He can sign an undated confession, which I will keep in my safe, as guarantee against future finagling.
I don’t expect to be around forever, you see—though, with that little secret I picked up on Rimbaud II, it’ll be a good long time, not even barring accidents—and I’ve been wondering whom to leave the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science to. Higgins will make a fine successor.
Oh, one more thing he will have to sign. It remains the Corrigan Institute as long as the place is in business.
Try to out-con me, will he?
BLAZE OF GLORY
Originally published in Galaxy , August 1957.
They list John Murchison as one of the great heroes of space—a brave man and true, who willingly sacrificed himself to save his ship. He won his immortality on the way back from Shaula II.
One thing’s wrong, though. He was brave, but he wasn’t willing. He wasn’t the self-sacrificing type. I’m inclined to think it was murder, or maybe execution. By remote control, you might say.
I guess they pick spaceship
Yesterday he stopped by at my office after we had closed down for the day. He was wearing that pleasant smile he always wears when he’s up to something.
He accepted a drink, as usual, and then he said, “Jim, I was talking to Lawrence R. Fitzgerald yesterday.”
“The little Regulan? The green basketball?”
“That’s the one. He tells me he’s only getting fifty dollars a week. And a lot of the other boys here are drawing pretty low pay too.”
My stomach gave a warning twinge. “Mike, if you’re looking for a raise, I’ve told you time and again you’re worth it to me. How about twenty a week?”
He held up one hand. “I’m not angling for a raise for me, Jim.”
“What then?”
He smiled beatifically. “The boys and I held a little meeting yesterday evening, and we—ah—formed a union, with me as leader. I’d like to discuss the idea of a general wage increase for every one of the exhibits here.”
“Higgins, you blackmailer, how can I afford—”
“Easy,” he said. “You’d hate to lose a few weeks’ gross, wouldn’t you?”
“You mean you’d call a strike?”
He shrugged. “If you leave me no choice, how else can I protect my members’ interests?”
After about half an hour of haggling, he sweated me into an across-the-board increase for the entire mob, with a distinct hint of further raises to come. But he also casually let me know the price he’s asking to call off the hounds. He wants a partnership in the Institute; a share in the receipts.
If he gets that, it makes him a member of management, and he’ll have to quit as union leader. That way I won’t have him to contend with as a negotiator.
But I will have him firmly embedded in the organization, and once he gets his foot in the door, he won’t be satisfied until he’s on top—which means when I’m out.
But I’m not licked yet! Not after a full lifetime of conniving and swindling! I’ve been over and over the angles and there’s one thing you can always count on—a trickster will always outsmart himself if you give him the chance. I did it with Higgins. Now he’s done it with me.
He’ll be back here in half an hour to find out whether he gets his partnership or not. Well, he’ll get his answer. I’m going to affirm, as per the escape clause in the standard exhibit contract he signed, that he is no longer of scientific value, and the Feds will pick him up and deport him to his home world.
That leaves him two equally nasty choices.
Those fake documents of his were good enough to get him admitted to Earth as a legitimate alien. How the World Police get him back there is their headache—and his.
If he admits the papers were phony, the only way he’ll get out of prison will be when it collapses of old age.
So I’ll give him a third choice: He can sign an undated confession, which I will keep in my safe, as guarantee against future finagling.
I don’t expect to be around forever, you see—though, with that little secret I picked up on Rimbaud II, it’ll be a good long time, not even barring accidents—and I’ve been wondering whom to leave the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science to. Higgins will make a fine successor.
Oh, one more thing he will have to sign. It remains the Corrigan Institute as long as the place is in business.
Try to out-con me, will he?
BLAZE OF GLORY
Originally published in Galaxy , August 1957.
They list John Murchison as one of the great heroes of space—a brave man and true, who willingly sacrificed himself to save his ship. He won his immortality on the way back from Shaula II.
One thing’s wrong, though. He was brave, but he wasn’t willing. He wasn’t the self-sacrificing type. I’m inclined to think it was murder, or maybe execution. By remote control, you might say.
I guess they pick spaceship
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