Subversive | Page 8

do I owe this cavalier intrusion into my
home and place of business?"
Jerry, at pistol point, was herding the four assistants from the room,
taking the houseman along with them.
Tracy looked at Moncure, speculatively, then dipped into his pockets

for pipe and tobacco. He gestured to a chair with his head. "Sit down,
Mr. Moncure. The jig is up."
"The jig?" the other blurted in a fine rage. "I insist--"
"O.K., O.K., you'll get your explanation." Tracy sat down on a couch
himself and sized up the older man, even as he lit his pipe.
Moncure, still breathing heavily in his indignation, took control of
himself well enough to be seated. "Well, sir?" he bit out.
Tracy said curtly, "Frank Tracy, Bureau of Economic Subversion."
"Bureau of Economic Subversion!" Moncure said indignantly. "What
in the name of all that's holy is the Bureau of Economic Subversion?"
Tracy pointed at him with the pipe stem. "I'll ask a few questions first,
please. How many branches of your nefarious outfit are presently under
operation?"
The other glared at him, but Tracy merely returned the pipe to his
mouth and glowered back.
Finally Moncure snapped, "There is no purpose in hiding any of our
affairs. We have opened preliminary offices only in Chicago and New
York. Freer Enterprises is but in its infancy."
"Praise Allah for that," Tracy muttered sarcastically.
"And thus far we have dealt only in soap. However, as our organization
gets under way we plan to branch out into a score, and ultimately
hundreds of products."
Tracy said, "You can forget about that, Moncure. Freer Enterprises
comes to a halt as of today. Do you realize that your business tactics
would lead to a complete collapse of gainful employment and
eventually to a depression such as this nation has never seen before?"
"Exactly!" Moncure snapped in return.

* * *
It was Tracy's turn to react. His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Do you
mean that you are deliberately attempting to undermine the economy of
the United States of the Americas? Remember, Mr. Moncure, you are
under arrest and anything you say may be held against you."
"Undermine it!" Moncure said heatedly. "Bring it crashing to the
ground is the better term. There has never been such an abortion
developed in the history of political economy."
He came to his feet again and began storming up and down the room.
"A full three quarters of our employed working at nothing jobs,
gobbledygook jobs, non-producing jobs, make-work jobs, red-tape
bureaucracy jobs. At a time when the nation is supposedly in a
breakneck economic competition with the Soviet Complex, we put our
best brains into advertising, entertainment and sales, while they put
theirs into science and industry."
He stopped long enough to shake an indignant finger at the surprised
Tracy. "But that isn't the worst of it. Have you ever heard of planned
obsolescence?"
Tracy acted as though on the defensive. "Well ... sure ..."
"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