Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction May 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
EXPEDITER
His assignment was to get things done;
he definitely did so.
Not quite the things intended, perhaps,
but definitely done.
by MACK REYNOLDS
ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE SCHELLING
he knock at the door came in the middle of the night, as Josip Pekichad always thought it would. He had been but four years of age whenthe knock had come that first time and the three large men had givenhis father a matter of only minutes to dress and accompany them. Hecould barely remember his father.
The days of the police state were over, so they told you. The cult ofthe personality was a thing of the past. The long series of five-yearplans and seven-year plans were over and all the goals had beenachieved. The new constitution guaranteed personal liberties. Nolonger were you subject to police brutality at the merest whim. Sothey told you.
But fears die hard, particularly when they are largely of thesubconscious. And he had always, deep within, expected the knock.
He was not mistaken. The rap came again, abrupt, impatient. JosipPekic allowed himself but one chill of apprehension, then rolled fromhis bed, squared slightly stooped shoulders, and made his way to thedoor. He flicked on the light and opened up, even as the burly, emptyfaced zombi there was preparing to pound still again.
There were two of them, not three as he had always dreamed. As threehad come for his father, more than two decades before.
His father had been a rightist deviationist, so the papers had said, afollower of one of whom Josip had never heard in any other contextother than his father's trial and later execution. But he had notcracked under whatever pressures had been exerted upon him, and ofthat his son was proud.
He had not cracked, and in later years, when the cult of personalitywas a thing of the past, his name had been cleared and returned to thehistory books. And now it was an honor, rather than a disgrace, to bethe son of Ljubo Pekic, who had posthumously been awarded the titleHero of the People's Democratic Dictatorship.
But though his father was now a hero, Josip still expected that knock.However, he was rather bewildered at the timing, having no idea of whyhe was to be under arrest.
The first of the zombi twins said expressionlessly, "Comrade JosipPekic?"
If tremor there was in his voice, it was negligible. He was the son ofLjubo Pekic. He said, "That is correct. Uh ... to what do I owe thisintrusion upon my privacy?" That last in the way of bravado.
The other ignored the question. "Get dressed and come with us,Comrade," he said flatly.
At least they still called him comrade. That was some indication, hehoped, that the charges might not be too serious.
He chose his dark suit. Older than the brown one, but in it he felt hepresented a more self-possessed demeanor. He could use the quality.Five foot seven, slightly underweight and with an air of unhappyself-deprecation, Josip Pekic's personality didn