Subversive Read online

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  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from _Analog_ December 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Subscript characters are shown within {braces}.

  Subversive

  "Subversive" is, in essence, a negative term--it means simply "against the existent system." It doesn't mean subversives all agree ...

  by Mack Reynolds

  Illustrated by Schoenherr

  The young man with the brown paper bag said, "Is Mrs. Coty in?"

  "I'm afraid she isn't. Is there anything I can do?"

  "You're Mr. Coty? I came about the soap." He held up the paper bag.

  "Soap?" Mr. Coty said blankly. He was the epitome of mid-aged husbandcomplete to pipe, carpet slippers and office-slump posture.

  "That's right. I'm sure she told you about it. My name's Dickens. WarrenDickens. I sold her--"

  "Look here, you mean to tell me in this day and age you go around fromdoor to door peddling soap? Great guns, boy, you'd do better onunemployment insurance. It's permanent now."

  Warren Dickens registered distress. "Mr. Coty, could I come in and tellyou about it? If I can make the first delivery to you instead of Mrs.Coty, shucks, it'll save me coming back."

  Coty led him back into the living room, motioned him to a chair andsettled into what was obviously his own favorite, handily placed beforethe telly. Coty said tolerantly, "Now then, what's this about sellingsoap? What kind of soap? What brand?"

  "Oh, it has no name, sir. That's the point."

  The other looked at him.

  "That's why we can sell it for three cents a cake, instead oftwenty-five." Dickens opened the paper bag and fished out an ordinaryenough looking cake of soap and handed it to the older man.

  Mr. Coty took it, stared down at it, turned it over in his hands. He wasstill blank. "Well, what's different about it?"

  "There's nothing different about it. It's the same as any other soap."

  "I mean, how come you sell it for three cents a cake, and what's thefact it has no name got to do with it?"

  Warren Dickens leaned forward and went into what was obviously astrictly routine pitch. "Mr. Coty, have you ever considered what you'rebuying when they nick you twenty-five cents on your credit card for abar of soap in an ultra-market?"

  There was an edge of impatience in the older man's voice. "I buy soap!"

  "No, sir. That's your mistake. What you buy is a telly show, in factseveral of them, with all their expensive comedians, singers, musicians,dancers, news commentators, network vice presidents, and all the rest.Then you buy fancy packaging. You'll note, by the way, that our producthasn't even a piece of tissue paper wrapped around it. Fancy packagingdesigned by some of the most competent commercial artists andmotivational research men in the country. Then you buy distribution.From the factory all the way to the retail ultra-market where your wifeshops. And every time that bar of soap goes from one wholesaler ordistributor to another, the price roughly doubles. You also buy a braintrust whose full time project is to keep you using their soap and notletting their competitors talk you into switching brands. The braintrust, of course, also works on luring away the competitor's customersto their product. Shucks, Mr. Coty, practically none of that twenty-fivecents you spend to buy a cake of soap goes for soap. So small apercentage that you might as well forget about it."

  Mr. Coty was obviously taken aback. "Well, how do I know this namelesssoap you're peddling is, well, any good?"

  Warren Dickens sighed deeply, and in such wise that it was obvious thathe had so sighed before. "Sir, there is no difference between soaps. Oh,they might use a slightly different perfume, or tint it a slightlydifferent color, but for all practical purposes common hand soap, commonbath soap, is soap, period. All the stuff the copy writers dream upabout secret ingredients and health for your skin, and cosmeticqualities, and all the rest, is Madison Avenue gobbledygook and appliesas well to one brand as another. As a matter of fact, often twodifferent soap companies, supposedly keen competitors, and using widelydifferent advertising, have their products manufactured in the sameplant."

  Mr. Coty blinked at him. Shifted in his chair. Rubbed his chin as thoughchecking his morning shave. "Well ... well, then where do you get _your_soap?"

  "The same place. We buy in fantastically large lots from one of thegigantic automated soap plants."

  Mr. Coty had him now. "Ah, ha! Then how come you sell it for three centsa cake, instead of twenty-five?"

  "I've been telling you. Our soap doesn't even have a name, not tomention an advertising budget. Far from spending fortunes redesigningour packaging every few months in attempts to lure new customers, wedon't package the stuff at all. It comes to you, in the simplestpossible wrapping, through the mails. A new supply every month. Threecents a cake. No middlemen, no wholesalers, distributors. No nothingexcept soap at three cents a cake."

  Mr. Coty leaned back in his chair. "I'll be darned." He thought it over."Listen, do you sell anything besides soap?"

  "Not right now, sir. But soap flakes are coming up next week and I thinkwe'll be going into bread in a month or two."

  "Bread?"

  "Yes, sir, bread. Although we'll have to distribute that by truck, andhave to have almost hundred per cent coverage in a given section beforeit's practical. A nickel a loaf."

  "Five cents a loaf! You can't _make_ bread for that much."

  "Oh, yes we can. We can't advertise it, package it, and pay a host ofin-betweens, is all. From the bakery to you, period."

  Mr. Coty seemed fascinated. He said, "See here, what's the address ofyour office?"

  Warren Dickens shook his head. "Sorry, sir. That's all part of it. Wehave no swanky offices with big, expensive staffs. We operate on thesmallest of shoestrings. No brain trust. No complaint department. Nopublic relations. No literature on how to beautify yourself. No nothing,except good soap at three cents a cake, plus postage. Now, if you'llsign this contract, we'll put you on our mailing list. Ten bars of soapa month, Mrs. Coty said. I brought this first supply so you could testit and see that the whole thing is bona fide."

  Mr. Coty had to test it, but then he had to admit he couldn't tell anydifference between the nameless soap and the product to which he wasused. Eventually, he signed, made the first payment, shook hands withyoung Dickens and saw him to the door. He said, in parting, "I stillwonder why you do this, rather than dragging down unemployment insurancelike most young men fresh out of school."

  Warren Dickens screwed up his face. This was a question that wasn'troutine. "Well, I make approximately the same, if I stick to it and getenough contracts. And, shucks they're not hard to get. And, well, I'mworking, not just bumming on the rest of the country. I'm doingsomething, something useful."

  Coty pursed his lips and shrugged. "It's been a long time since anybodycared about that." He looked after the young man as he walked down thewalk.

  Then he turned and headed for the phone, and ten years seemed to dropaway from him. He lit the screen with a flick, dialed and said crisply,"That's him, Jerry. Going down the walk now. Don't let him out of yoursight."

  Jerry's face was in the screen but he was obviously peering down, fromthe helio-jet, locating the subject. "O.K., Tracy, I make him. See youlater." His face faded.

  The man who had called himself Mr. Coty, dialed again, not bothering tolight the screen. "All right," he said. "Thank Mrs. Coty and let hercome home now."

  * * * * *

  Frank Tracy worked his
way down an aisle of automated phono-typers andother office equipment. The handful of operators, their faces bored,periodically strolled up and down, needlessly checking that which seldomneeded checking.

  He entered the receptionist's office, flicked a hand at LaVerne Sandell,one of the few employees it seemed impossible to automate out of herposition, and said, "The Chief is probably expecting me."

  "That he is. Go right in, Mr. Tracy."

  "I'm expecting a call from one of the operatives. Put it through, ehLaVerne?"

  "Righto."

  Even as he walked toward the door to the sanctum sanctorum, he grimacedsourly at her. "_Righto_, yet. Isn't that a bit on the maize side?Doesn't sound very authentic to me."

  "I can see you don't put in your telly time, Mr. Tracy. Slang goes incycles these days. They simply don't dream up a whole new set ofexpressions every generation anymore because everybody gets tired ofthem so soon. Instead, older periods of idiom are revived. For instance,scram is coming back in."

  He stopped long enough to look at her, frowning. "Scram?"

  She took him in quizzically, estimating. "Possibly _dust_, or _getlost_, was the term when you were a boy."

  Tracy chuckled wryly, "Thanks for the compliment, but I go back to thedays of _beat it_."

  In the inner office the Chief looked up at him. "Sit down, Frank. What'sthe word? Another exponent of free enterprise, pre-historic style?"

  Frank Tracy found a chair and began talking even while fumbling forbriar and tobacco pouch. "No," he grumbled. "I don't think so, not thistime. I'm afraid there might be something more to it."

  His boss leaned back in the massive old-fashioned chair he affected andpatted his belly, as though appreciative of a good meal just finished."Oh? Give it all to me."

  Tracy finished lighting his pipe, flicked the match out and put it backin his pocket, noting that he'd have to get a new one one of these days.He cleared his throat and said, "Reports began coming in of house tohouse canvassers selling soap for three cents a bar."

  "_Three cents a bar?_ They can't manufacture it for that. Will the stuffpass the Health Department?"

  "Evidently," Tracy said wryly. "The salesman claimed it's the same soapas reputable firms peddle."

  "Go on."

  "We had to go to a bit of trouble to get a line on them without raisingtheir suspicion. One of the boys lived in a neighborhood that was beingcanvassed for new customers and his wife had signed up. So I took herplace when the salesman arrived with her first delivery--they deliverthe first batch. I let him think I was Bob Coty and questioned him, butnot enough to raise his suspicions."

  "And?"

  "An outfit selling soap and planning on branching into bread and heavensknows what else. No advertising. No middlemen. No nothing, as thesalesman said, except standard soap at three cents a bar."

  "They can't package it for that!"

  "They don't package it at all."

  The Chief raised his chubby right hand and wiped it over his face in astereotype gesture of resignation. "Did you get his home office address?Maybe there's some way of buying them out--indirectly, of course."

  "No, sir. It seemed to be somewhat of a secret."

  The other's eyes widened. "Ridiculous. You can't hide anything likethat. There's a hundred ways of tracking them down before the day isout."

  "Of course. I've got Jerome Wiseman following him in a helio-jet. No usegetting rough, as yet. We'll keep it quiet ... assuming that meets withyour approval."

  "You're in the field, Frank. You make the decisions."

  The phone screen had lighted up and LaVerne's piquant face faded in."The call Mr. Tracy was expecting from Operative Wiseman."

  "Put him on," the Chief said, lacing his plump fingers over his stomach.

  Jerry's face appeared in the screen. He was obviously parked on thestreet now. He said, "Subject has disappeared into this office building,Tracy. For the past fifteen minutes he's kinda looked as though theday's work was through and since this dump could hardly be anybody'shome, he must be reporting to his higher-up."

  "Let's see the building," Tracy said.

  The portable screen was directed in such manner that a disreputableappearing building, obviously devoted to fourth-rate businesses, wascentered.

  "O.K.," Tracy said. "I'll be over. You can knock off, Jerry. Oh, exceptfor one thing. Subject's name is Warren Dickens. Just for luck, get acomplete dossier on him. I doubt if he's got a criminal or subversiverecord, but you never know."

  Jerry said, "Right," and faded.

  Frank Tracy came to his feet and knocked the rest of his pipe out intothe gigantic ashtray on his boss' desk. "Well, I suppose the next step'smine."

  "Check back with me as soon as you know anything more," the Chief said.He wheezed a sigh as though sorry the interview was over and that he'dhave to go back to his desk chores, but shifted his bulk and took up asheaf of papers.

  Just as Tracy got to the door, the Chief said, "Oh, yes. Easy on therough stuff, Tracy. I've been hearing some disquieting reports aboutsome of the overenthusiastic bullyboys on your team. We wouldn't wantsuch material to get in the telly-casts."

  _Lard bottom_, Tracy growled inwardly as he left. Did the Chief think heliked violence? Did anyone in his right mind like violence?

  * * *

  Frank Tracy looked up at the mid-century type office building. He wassomewhat surprised that the edifice still remained. Where did the ownersever find profitable tenants? What business could be so small these daysthat it would be based in such quarters? However, here it was.

  The lobby was shabby. There was no indication on the list of tenants ofthe firm he was seeking, nor was there a porter. The elevator was out ofrepair.

  He did it the hard way, going from door to door, entering, hat in hand,apologetically, and saying, "Pardon me. You're the people who sell thesoap?" They kept telling him no until he reached the third floor and adoor to an office even smaller than usual. It was lettered _FreerEnterprises_ and even as he knocked and entered, the wording rang abell.

  There was only one desk but it was efficiently equipped with the latestin office gadgetry. The room was quite choked with files and even aMini-IBM tri-unit. The man behind the desk was old-fashioned enough towear glasses, but otherwise seemed the average aggressive executive typeyou expected to meet in these United States of the Americas. He waspossibly in his mid-thirties and one of those alert, over-eagercharacters irritating to those who believe in taking matters less thanurgently.

  He looked up and said snappily, "What can I do for you?"

  Tracy dropped into an easy-going characterization. "You're the peoplewho sell the soap?"

  "That is correct. What can I do for you?"

  Tracy said easily, "Why, I'd like to ask you a few questions about theenterprise."

  "To what end, sir? You'd be surprised how busy a man I am."

  Tracy said, "Suppose I'm from the Greater New York _News-Times_ lookingfor a story?"

  The other tapped a finger on his desk impatiently. "Pardon me, but inthat case I would be inclined to think you a liar. The _News-Times_knows upon which side its bread is spread. Its advertisers include allthe soap companies. It does not dispense free advertising through itsnews columns."

  Tracy chuckled wryly, "All right. Let's start again." He brought forthhis wallet, flicked through various identification cards until he foundthe one he wanted and presented it. "Frank Tracy is the name," he said."Department of Internal Revenue. There seems to be some question as toyour corporation taxes."

  "Oh," the other said, obviously taken aback. "Please have a chair." Heread the authentic looking, but spurious credentials. Tracy took theproffered chair and then sat and looked at the other as though it washis turn.

  "My name is Flowers," the Freer Enterprises man told him, nervously."Frederic Flowers. Frankly, this is my first month at the job and I'mnot too well acquainted with all the ramifications of the business." Hemoistened his lips. "I hope there is nothing illegal--
" He let thesentence fade away.

  Tracy reclaimed his false identity papers and put them back into hiswallet before saying easily, "I really couldn't say, as yet. Let's havea bit of questions and answers and I'll go further into the matter."

  Flowers regained his confidence. "No reason why not," he said quickly."So far as I know, all is above board."

  Frank Tracy let his eyes go about the room. "Why are you established,almost secretly, you might say, in this business backwoods of the city?"

  "No secret about it," Flowers demurred. "Merely the cheapest rent wecould find. We cut costs to the bone, and then shave the bone."

  "Um-m-m. I've spoken to one of your salesmen, a Warren Dickens, and Isuppose he gave me the standard sales talk. I wonder if you couldelaborate on your company's policies, its goals, that sort of thing."

  "Goals?"

  "You obviously expect to make money, somehow or other, though I don'tsee that peddling soap at three cents a bar has much of a future. Theremust be some