PAGE 5
Gun For Hire
by
* * * * *
Joe Prantera on a job was thorough.
Careful, painstaking, competent.
He spent the first three days of his life in the year 2133 getting the feel of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell had been appointed to work with him. Joe didn’t meet any of the others who belonged to the group which had taken the measures to bring him from the past. He didn’t want to meet them. The fewer persons involved, the better.
He stayed in the apartment of Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right, Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor. Brett-James evidently had something to do with the process that had enabled them to bring Joe from the past. Joe didn’t know how they’d done it, and he didn’t care. Joe was a realist. He was here. The thing was to adapt.
There didn’t seem to be any hurry. Once the deal was made, they left it up to him to make the decisions.
They drove him around the town, when he wished to check the traffic arteries. They flew him about the whole vicinity. From the air, Southern California looked much the same as it had in his own time. Oceans, mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts, are fairly permanent even against man’s corroding efforts.
It was while he was flying with Brett-James on the second day that Joe said, “How about Mexico? Could I make the get to Mexico?”
The physicist looked at him questioningly. “Get?” he said.
Joe Prantera said impatiently, “The getaway. After I give it to this Howard Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on the run, don’t I?”
“I see.” Brett-James cleared his throat. “Mexico is no longer a separate nation, Mr. Prantera. All North America has been united into one unit. Today, there are only eight nations in the world.”
“Where’s the nearest?”
“South America.”
“That’s a helluva long way to go on a get.”
“We hadn’t thought of the matter being handled in that manner.”
Joe eyed him in scorn. “Oh, you didn’t, huh? What happens after I give it to this guy? I just sit around and wait for the cops to put the arm on me?”
Brett-James grimaced in amusement. “Mr. Prantera, this will probably be difficult for you to comprehend, but there are no police in this era.”
Joe gaped at him. “No police! What happens if you gotta throw some guy in stir?”
“If I understand your idiom correctly, you mean prison. There are no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera.”
Joe stared. “No cops, no jails. What stops anybody? What stops anybody from just going into some bank, like, and collecting up all the bread?”
Brett-James cleared his throat. “Mr. Prantera, there are no banks.”
“No banks! You gotta have banks!”
“And no money to put in them. We found it a rather antiquated method of distribution well over a century ago.”
Joe had given up. Now he merely stared.
Brett-James said reasonably, “We found we were devoting as much time to financial matters in all their endless ramifications–including bank robberies–as we were to productive efforts. So we turned to more efficient methods of distribution.”
* * * * *
On the fourth day, Joe said, “O.K., let’s get down to facts. Summa the things you guys say don’t stick together so good. Now, first place, where’s this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?”
Reston-Farrell and Brett-James were both present. The three of them sat in the living room of the latter’s apartment, sipping a sparkling wine which seemed to be the prevailing beverage of the day. For Joe’s taste it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was available to those who wanted it.
Reston-Farrell said, “You mean, where does he reside? Why, here in this city.”
“Well, that’s handy, eh?” Joe scratched himself thoughtfully. “You got somebody can finger him for me?”