His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"Please," said the girl appealingly. "This election petition will help turn out the Fusionist gang and put in Lowers who know how people like us feel and think—"

Return from M-15

[Cosmic Stories - March 1941 as by S. D. Gottesman]

"For this device," declared the haggard young man, "and all rights, I want thirty percent of the World Research Syndicate voting stock."

The big man grinned. "Your little joke, Dr. Train. World Research Syndicate has little interest in independents—but from a person of your ability, perhaps we'll examine it. What is it you have there?

Perhaps a payment of a few thousands can be arranged."

"Don't laugh just yet. Look over these plans—you'll see what I mean."

The engineer took up the sheaf of cap with a smile and unrolled one of the sheets. His brow wrinkled, the smile became a frown. He opened other sheets and stared at them.

"Excuse me," he said, looking up. "I think I see what you are driving at, but I can't deliver an opinion on this sort of thing. I'm an expert in my own line and I know dielectrics as well as most, but this stuff is over my head. I shall endorse your work and refer it to the Board of Technology.

And I think you'll scare hell out of them."

Train laughed freely. "I'll do my best, Hans. And have you any idea of what this device will do?"

Vogel looked frightened. "I almost hope I'm wrong," he said. "Does it—"

he whispered in Train's ear.

"Right the first time. It does and it will. And if the Syndicate doesn't meet my demands, then I can set it up myself and go into business."

The other man looked strangely sober. "Young Dr. Train," he started, "I am strangely inclined to advise you like a father."

"Go ahead, Hans," replied Train cheerfully.

"Very well. I tell you, then, to moderate your request, or you will find yourself in the gravest of difficulties." He looked about the room apprehensively. "This is not a threat; it is merely advice. I am almost convinced that you should scrap your machine or technique, or whatever it is, and forget about it as completely as you can."

Train rose angrily. "Thank you. Vogel, you must be the truest and most faithful slave the Syndicate has; you and your advice can both go to the same place. I'm leaving the plans with you; they are not complete, of course. I hold all the key details. Send them in to your board and have them communicate with me. Good day."

Ann was primping herself before a mirror. "Barney," she warned coldly as she saw Train sneaking up behind her.

"I just wanted to straighten my tie," he said meekly.

"A likely story!"

"It isn't every day one calls on Jehovah," he said. "I think Mr. T J. Hartly would be disgruntled if I appeared with a crooked tie to receive a check for a million dollars."

"For a check that big you should be willing to go in stark naked," she said reflectively.

"Possibly. Where shall we have dinner? I want to flash the check in a head-waitress' face. They've been sneering at me all my life and I think it's time I got even."

"You'll do no such thing!" she retorted indignantly. "The moment we get that check, we head for the city clerk and get married. The money may be in your name, but I'm not going to be short-changed."

"Come on," he said, taking her arm and starting for the door. "It is sort of wonderful, isn't it? I'm so damned nervous I might burst into tears."

Suddenly sober, she looked at him. "Yes."

"Husband and wife," he mused. "Free from care and poverty; we can just love each other and buy all the crazy, expensive machines we want.

We can get acid stains on our hands whenever we feel like it, and have explosions three times a day. It's like a dream."

She kissed him abruptly. "On our way." They hopped into a taxi, and after a few moments of frenzied driving, pulled up at the entrance to the Syndicate Building.

Train paid the driver, gave him an enormous tip. On the elevator, Ann kicked him sharply in the shin.

"What was that for?" he inquired injuredly.

"For wasting our money, dear."

"Then this," he replied, kicking her back, "is for interfering in the distribution of our funds." The door opened and they hobbled out of the car.

"Mr. Train and Miss Riley?" asked a polished young man, looking curiously at them. "Please come this way." He opened a hugely carven oak door and ushered them through. Then the door closed solidly behind them.

The room was huge and impressively bare. At the far end, beneath clouded windows, was a large desk. Impressively the man behind it rose. "I am Mr. Hartly," he said.

"Riley and Train," replied Barnabas Train nervously. "We are pleased to meet you."