His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"No doubt about that," came the answer. "So would many misguided persons. But the interesting thing about it is that they have always ended up among insuperable difficulties. You may make me a concrete proposition, Doctor."

"I may and I will! The proposition is this: your unqualified resignation from the directorship and organization of World Research Syndicate, and an assignment to me of unlimited reorganization powers for the period of one year."

Hartly's voice was mocking in tone. "Yes? World Research is a rather large enterprise. Do you think one year would be enough?"

"Ample. Your answer?"

A long pause, then: "My answer is unqualified refusal."

"Based on what? Make no mistake: I shan't hesitate to blot you out any longer than you would hesitate to do the same to me—unless you capitulate. And the difference, T J., is that I can do it and you cannot."

"Admitted," came back Hartly's voice cheerfully. "But surely, Doctor, you didn't think that I have not been preparing—in fact, been prepared—for just such an occasion as this ever since I came into power?"

"Explain," snapped the scientist. "And talk fast and straight."

Hartly's voice was now unperturbed. "When a question of conflict arises, it's either a matter of personal gain or benefit to the world. I've been faced by determined men before, Train. Those who were after personal advancement could be compromised with and later eliminated by quick thinking and quicker action.

"However, altruists presented a different problem. Most of them could not be bribed. Some of them were powerful enough, by reason of their ability or backing, or both, to issue a flat defiance to me. Those I threatened with the thing they loved most—humanity."

"Come to the point, Hardy. I'm not too patient a man in some ways."

"I was a bacteriologist once," went on Hartly. "And, in the course of my research, I developed a nasty variety of bread-mold. It attacks anything organic and spreads like wildfire. I know of nothing to check it, nor does anyone else. It thrives at any temperature and flourishes off corrosive agents."

"So?"

"So, Doctor Train, make one false move, as they say in melodrama, and I release an active culture of that mold; you will then see your flesh crumble away. I realize that alone wouldn't stop you, but the thought of what will then happen to the teeming millions of Earth will."

Another silence, then: "I decided long ago, Train, that no one would wipe me out. True, someone might come along with bigger and better power, even as you have done, but, as you can see, if there's any blotting out to be done, I shall do it myself.

"It will mean the end of World Research and of me. It will also mean the end of all animal life on this planet. If you want a Pyrrhic victory, Train, you may have it."

"It's horrible!" cried Ann, her eyes wide with the shock of it. "Can he do it, Barney?"

"Miss Riley," came through the voice. "Perhaps you remember the occasion of our first meeting. Do you think me the type of man to try a bluff?"

Train turned to the transmitter of his tiny outfit. "I know you're not bluffing, Hartly. I know also that you'll try every means of persuasion you know first, because you don't particularly want to be wiped out, even by you own hands, yet. But it won't work; you'll try this last resort of yours because the ethics of business, which doesn't blink at the murder of an individual, wouldn't blink at the murder of a planet.

"We're going to make a call on you very soon, Hartly. My wife, myself, and Independent Fourteen."

5

Train paused for a moment in thought. "Ann," he said, "do you think Hogan would want to help us?"

"That's a fine favor to ask of any neighbor. Let's see."

They knocked on the door of an adjoining apartment, and the staccato rattle of a typewriter suddenly cut short. The door swung open, and a little man presented himself. "Afternoon, Trains," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Hogan," began Ann winsomely, "we think you ought to take the afternoon off. Your work's telling on you."

"Not so I've noticed it. What do you want me to do? More shopping for copper tubing? I'm a busy man, Mrs. Train."

"We know that, Hogan," broke in Barney. "But can you spare us a few hours? We need help badly. You'll have to push some heavy machinery and maybe do a bit of scrapping …"

"A fight! Why didn't you say so in the first place? Wait; I'll get me gun."

He vanished, and they heard the typewriter rattle off a few more steaming paragraphs.

The little man appeared again, hefting a ponderous automatic. "Who do we have to pop off?" he asked amiably.

Ann shivered. "Bloodthirsty, isn't he?"

"They bred us that way in South America. Is it a riot, or what?"

"No, none of them. We're going to blow up World Research."

"Splendid! I'd often thought of how elegant it would be to do that, if only some way could be figured out. Where's the machinery ye spoke of? I presume that is what you toss the bombs with."