"In the Soviet Complex, and, for that matter, in Common Europe and other
economic competitors of ours, they simply don't believe in planned
obsolescence and all its related nonsense. Razor blades, everywhere
except in this country, don't go dull after two or three shaves. Cars
don't fall apart after two or three years, or even become so out of
style that the owner feels that he's losing status by being seen in it,
the owners expect to keep them half a lifetime. Automobile batteries
don't go to pieces after eighteen months, they last for a decade. And on
and on!"
The old boy was really unwinding now. "Nor is even that the nadir of
this socio-economic hodge-podge we've allowed to develop, this economy
of production for sale, rather than production for use." He stabbed with
his finger. "I think one of the best examples of what was to come was to
be witnessed way back at the end of the Second War. The idea of the
ball-bearing pen was in the air. The first one to hurry into production
gave his pen a tremendous build-up. It had ink enough to last three
years, it would make many carbon copies, you could use it under water.
And so on and so forth. It cost fifteen dollars, and there was only one
difficulty with it. It wouldn't write. Not that that made any difference
because it sold like hotcakes what with all the promotion. He wasn't
interested in whether or not it would write, but only in whether or not
it would sell." Moncure threw up his hands dramatically. "I ask you, can
such an economic system be taken seriously?"
"What's your point?" Tracy growled dangerously. He'd never met one this
far out, before.
"Isn't it obvious? Continue this ridiculous economy and we'll lose the
battle for men's minds. You can't have an economic system that allows
such nonsense as large scale unemployment of trained employees, planned
obsolescence, union featherbedding, and an overwhelming majority of
those who are employed wasting their labor on unproductive employment."
Tracy said, "Then if I understand you correctly, Freer Enterprises was
deliberately organized for the purpose of undermining the economy so
that it will collapse and have to be reorganized on a different basis."
"That is _exactly_ correct," Moncure said defiantly. "I am devoting my
whole fortune to this cause. And there is nothing in American law that
prevents me from following through with my plans."
"You're right there," Tracy said wryly. "There's nothing in American law
that prevents you. However, you see, I have no connection whatsoever
with the American government." He slipped the gun from its holster.
* * * * *
Frank Tracy made his way wearily into LaVerne's domain. She looked up
from the desk. "Everything go all right, Mr. Tracy?"
"I suppose so. Tell Comrade Zotov that I'm back from Chicago, please."
She clicked switches, said something into an inner-office communicator,
then looked up again. "He'll see you immediately, Mr. Tracy."
Pavel Zotov looked up from his endless paperwork and wheezed the sigh of
a fat man. He correctly interpreted the expression of his field
operative. "Pour us a couple of drinks, Frank, or would you rather have
it _Frol_, today?"
His best field man grunted as he walked over to the bar. "Vodka, eh?
_Chort vesmiot_ how tired one can become of this everlasting bourbon."
He reached into the refrigerator compartment and brought forth a bottle
of iced Stolichnaya. He poured two three-ounce charges and brought them
back to his bureau chief's desk.
They toasted silently, knocked back the colorless spirit. Pavel Zotov
said, "Well, Frol?"
The man usually called Frank Tracy said, "The worst case yet. This one
had quite a clear picture of the true situation. He saw the
necessity--given _their_ viewpoint, of course--of getting out of the
fantastic rut their economy has fallen into." He ran his hand over his
mouth in a gesture of weariness. "Chief, do you have any idea of how
long it would take us to catch up to them, if we ever did, if they
really turned this economy on full blast, as an alternative to their
present foul-up?"
"That's why we're here," the Chief said heavily. "What did you do?"
The man sometimes called Tracy told him.