We got it ready in one black-coffee night and the President's writers had his lines ready for him. The smash finish was to show Congress in session, discussing the emergency, and every man, woman, and page boy showing a bare back to the camera.
With twenty-eight minutes left until stereocast time the President got a call from up the street. I was present; the Old Man had been with the President all night, and had kept me around for chores. Mary was there, of course; the President was her special charge. We were all in shorts; Schedule Bare Back had already started in the White House. The only ones who looked comfortable in the get-up were Mary, who can wear anything, the colored doorman, who carried himself like a Zulu king, and the President himself, whose innate dignity could not be touched.
When the call came in the President did not bother to cut us out of his end of the conversation. "Speaking," he said. Presently he added, "You feel certain? Very well, John, what do you advise . . . . I see. No, I don't think that would work. . . . I had better come up the street. Tell them to be ready." He pushed back the phone, his face still serene, and turned to an assistant. "Tell them to hold up the broadcast." He turned to the Old Man. "Come, Andrew, we must go to the Capitol."
He sent for his valet and retired into a dressing room adjoining his office; when he came out, he was formally dressed for a state occasion. He offered no explanation, the Old Man raised an eyebrow but said nothing and I did not dare say anything. The rest of us stayed in our gooseflesh specials and so we went to the Capitol.
It was a joint session, the second in less than twenty-four hours. We trooped in, and I got that no-pants-in-church nightmare feeling, for the Congressmen and senators were dressed as usual. Then I saw that the page boys were in shorts without shirts and felt somewhat better.
I still don't understand it. It seems that some people would rather be dead than lose dignity, with senators high on the list. Congressmen, too-a Congressman is a man who wants to be a senator. They had given the President all the authority he asked for; Schedule Bare Back itself had been discussed and approved-but they did not see where it applied to them. After all, they had been searched and cleaned out; Congress was the only group in the country known to be free of titans.
Maybe some saw the holes in the argument, but not one wanted to be first in a public striptease. Face and dignity are indispensable to an office holder. They sat tight, fully dressed.
When the President took the rostrum, he simply looked at them until he got dead silence. Then slowly, calmly, he started taking off clothes.
He stopped when he was bare to the waist. He had had me worried for a moment; I think he had others worried. He then turned slowly around, lifting his arms. At last he spoke.
"I did that," he said, "so that you might see for yourself that your Chief Executive is not a prisoner of the enemy." He paused.
"But how about you?" That last word was flung at them.
The President punched a finger at the junior Whip. "Mark Cummings-how about you? Are you a loyal citizen or are you a zombie spy? Get up! Get your shirt off!"
"Mister President-" It was Charity Evans, from the State of Maine, looking like a pretty schoolteacher. She stood and I saw that, while she was fully dressed, she was in evening dress. Her gown reached to the floor, but was cut as deep as could be above. She turned like a mannequin; in back the dress ended at the base of her spine; in front it came up in two well-filled scallops. "Is this satisfactory, Mr. President?"
"Quite satisfactory, madam."
Cummings was on his feet and fumbling at his jacket; his face was scarlet. Someone stood up in the middle of the hall.
It was Senator Gottlieb. He looked as if he should have been in bed; his cheeks were gray and sunken; his lips showed cyanosis. But he held himself erect and, with incredible dignity, followed the President's example. His old-fashioned underwear was a one-piece job; he wriggled his arms out and let it dangle over his galluses. Then he, too, turned all the way around; on his back, scarlet against his fish-white flesh, was the mark of the parasite.
He spoke. "Last night I stood here and said things I would rather have been flayed alive than utter. But last night I was not my own master. Today I am. Can you not see that Rome is burning?" Suddenly he had a gun in his hand. "Up on your feet, you wardheelers, you courthouse loafers! Two minutes to get your duds off and show a bare back-then I shoot!"
Men close to him sprang up and tried to grab his arm, but he swung the gun around like a flyswatter, smashing one of them in the face. I had my own out, ready to back his play, but it was not necessary. They could see that he was as dangerous as an old bull and they backed away.
It hung in balance, then they started shucking clothes like Doukhobors. One man bolted for a door; he was tripped. No, he was not wearing a parasite.
But we did catch three. After that, the show went on the channels, ten minutes late, and Congress started the first of its "bare back" sessions.
Chapter 14
"LOCK YOUR DOORS!"
"CLOSE THE DAMPERS ON YOUR FIREPLACES!"
"NEVER ENTER A DARK PLACE!"
"BE WARY OF CROWDS!"
"A MAN WEARING A COAT IS AN ENEMY-SHOOT!"
We should have had every titan in the country spotted and killed in a week. I don't know what more we could have done. In addition to a steady barrage of propaganda the country was being quartered and sectioned from the air, searching for flying saucers on the ground. Our radar screen was on full alert for unidentified blips. Military units, from airborne troops to guided-rocket stations, were ready to smear any that landed.
Then nothing happened. There was no work for them to do. The thing fizzled like a damp firecracker.
In the uncontaminated areas people took off their shirts, willingly or reluctantly, looked around them and found no parasites. They watched their newscasts and wondered and waited for the government to tell them that the danger was over. But nothing happened and both laymen and local officials began to doubt the necessity of running around the streets in sunbathing costumes. We had shouted "Wolf!" and no wolf came.
The contaminated areas? The reports from the contaminated areas were not materially different from the reports from other areas.
Our stereocast and the follow-ups did not reach those areas. Back in the days of radio it could not have happened; the Washington station where the 'cast originated could have blanketed the country. But stereo-video rides wavelengths so short that horizon-to-horizon relay is necessary and local channels must be squirted out of local stations; it's the price we pay for plenty of channels and high resolution pictures.
In the infected areas the slugs controlled the local stations; the people never heard the warning.
But in Washington we had every reason to believe that they had heard the warning. Reports came back from-well, Iowa, for example, just like those from California. The governor of Iowa was one of the first to send a message to the President, promising full cooperation. The Iowa state police were already cruising the roads, he reported, stopping everybody and requiring them to strip to the waist. Air travel above Iowa was stopped for the duration of the emergency, just as the President had urged.
There was even a relayed stereo of the governor addressing his constituents, bare to the waist. He faced the camera and I wanted to tell him to turn around. But presently they cut to another camera and we had a close up of a bare back, while the governor's voice went cheerfully on, urging all citizens to work with the police.
If any place in the Union was a pest house of slugs, Iowa should have been it. Had they evacuated Iowa and concentrated on heavier centers of population?
We were gathered in a conference room off the President's office. The President had kept the Old Man with him, I tagged along, and Mary was still on watch. Secretary of Security Martinez was there as well as the Supreme Chief of Staff, Air Marshal Rexton. There were others from the President's "fishing cabinet", but they weren't important.
The President watched the 'cast from Io
wa and turned to the Old Man. "Well, Andrew? I thought Iowa was a place we would have to fence off."
The Old Man grunted.
Marshal Rexton said, "As I figure it-mind you, I have not had much time to evaluate this situation-they have gone underground. We may have to comb every inch of every suspicious area."
The Old Man grunted again. "Combing Iowa, corn shock by corn shock, does not appeal to me."
"How else would you tackle it, sir?"
"Figure your enemy! He can't go underground. He can't live without a host."
"Very well-assuming that is true, how many parasites would you say are in Iowa?"
"Damn it, how should I know? They didn't take me into their confidence."
"Suppose we make a top estimate. If-"
The Old Man interrupted him. "You've got no basis for an estimate. Can't you folks see that the titans have won another round?"
"Eh?"
"You just heard the governor; they let us look at his back-or somebody's back. Did you notice that he didn't turn around in front of the camera?"
"But he did," someone said. "I saw him."
"I certainly had the impression that I saw him turn," said the President slowly. "You are suggesting that Governor Packer is himself possessed?"
"Correct. You saw what you were meant to see. There was a camera cut just before he was fully turned; people hardly ever notice them; they are used to them. Depend on it. Mister President, every message out of Iowa is faked."
The President looked thoughtful. Secretary Martinez shook his head emphatically and said, "Impossible. Granted that the governor's message could have been faked-a clever character actor could have faked it. Remember the inaugural address in the crisis of '96, when the President Elect was laid up with pneumonia? Granted that one such 'cast could be faked, we've had our choice of dozens of 'casts from Iowa. How about that street scene in Des Moines? Don't tell me you can fake hundreds of people dashing around stripped to their waists-or do your parasites practice mass hypnotic control?"
"They can't that I know of," conceded the Old Man. "If they can, we might as well throw in the towel and admit that the human race has been superseded. But what made you think that that 'cast came from Iowa?"
"Eh? Why, damn it, sir, it came over the Iowa channel."
"Proving what? Did you read any street signs? It looked like any typical street in a downtown retail district. Never mind what city the announcer told you it was; what city was it?"
The Secretary let his mouth hang open. I've got fairly close to the "camera eye" that detectives are supposed to have; I let that picture run through my mind-and I not only could not tell what city, I could not even place the part of the country. It could have been Memphis, Seattle, or Boston-or none of them. Allowing for special cases like Canal Street in New Orleans, or Denver's Civic Center, the downtown districts in American cities are as standardized as barber shops.
"Never mind," the Old Man went on. "I couldn't tell and I was looking for landmarks. The explanation is simple; the Des Moines station picked up a Schedule Bare Back street scene from some city not contaminated and rechanneled it under their own commentary. They chopped out anything that would localize it . . . and we swallowed it. Gentlemen, this enemy knows us, inside and out. This campaign has been planned in great detail and they are ready to outwit us in almost any move we can make."
"Aren't you being an alarmist, Andrew?" said the President. "There is another possibility, that the titans have moved somewhere else."
"They are still in Iowa," the Old Man said flatly, "but you won't prove it with that thing." He gestured at the stereo tank.
Secretary Martinez squirmed. "This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "You are saying that we can't get a correct report out of Iowa, as if it were occupied territory."
"That is what it is."
"But I stopped off in Des Moines two days ago, coming back from Alaska. Everything was normal. Mind you, I grant the existence of your parasites, though I haven't seen one. But let's find them where they are and root them out, instead of dreaming up fantasies."
The Old Man looked tired and I felt tired. I wondered how many ordinary people were taking it seriously, if this was what we ran into at the top.
Finally the Old Man replied, "Control the communications of a country and you control the country; that's elementary. You had better take fast steps. Mister Secretary, or you won't have any communications left."
"But I was merely-"
"You root 'em out!" the Old Man said rudely. "I've told you they are in Iowa and in New Orleans, and a dozen other spots. My job is finished. You are Secretary of Security; you root 'em out." He stood up and said, "Mister President, I've had a long pull for a man my age; when I lose sleep I lose my temper. Could I be excused?"
"Certainly, Andrew." He had not lost his temper and I think the President knew it. He doesn't lose his temper; he makes other people lose theirs.
Before the Old Man could say goodnight. Secretary Martinez interrupted. "Wait a moment! You've made some flat-footed statements. Let's check up on them." He turned to the Chief of Staff. "Rexton!"
"Uh, yes, sir."
"That new post near Des Moines, Fort something-or-other, named after what's-his-name?"
"Fort Patton."
"That's it, that's it. Well, let's not dally; get them on the command circuit-"
"With visual," put in the Old Man.
"With visual, of course, and we'll show this-I mean we'll get the true situation in Iowa."
The Air Marshal handed a by-your-leave-sir to the President, went to the stereo tank and patched in with Security General Headquarters. He asked for the officer of the watch at Fort Patton, Iowa.
Shortly thereafter the stereo tank showed the inside of a military communications center. Filling the foreground was a young officer. His rank and corps showed on his cap, but his chest was bare. Martinez turned triumphantly to the Old Man. "You see?"
"I see."
"Now to make certain. Lieutenant!"
"Yes, sir!" The young fellow looked awestruck and kept glancing from one famous face to another. Reception and bi-angle were in synch; the eyes of the image looked where they seemed to look, as if he were actually sitting in the receiver tank.
"Stand up and turn around," Martinez continued.
"Uh? Why, certainly, sir." He seemed puzzled, but he did so-and it took him almost out of scan. We could see his bare back, up to about the short ribs-no higher.
"Confound it!" shouted Martinez. "Sit down and turn around."
"Yessir!" The youth seemed flustered. He leaned over the desk and added, "Just a moment while I widen the view angle, sir."
The picture suddenly melted and rippling rainbows chased across the tank. The young officer's voice was still coming over the audio channel. "There-is that better, sir?"
"Damn it, we can't see a thing!"
"You can't? Just a moment, sir."
We could hear him breathing heavily. Suddenly the tank came to life and I thought for a moment that we were back at Fort Patton. But it was a major on the screen this time and the place looked larger. "Supreme Headquarters," the image announced, "Communications officer of the watch. Major Donovan."
"Major," Martinez said in controlled tones, "I was hooked in with Fort Patton. What happened?"
"Yes, sir; I was monitoring it. We've had a slight technical difficulty on that channel. We'll put your call through again in a moment."
"Well, hurry!"
"Yes, sir." The tank rippled and went empty.
The Old Man stood up again. "Call me when you've cleared up that 'slight technical difficulty'. Meantime, I'm going to bed."
Chapter 15
If I have given the impression that Secretary Martinez was stupid, I am sorry. Everyone had trouble at first believing what the slugs could do. You have to see one, then you believe in the pit of your stomach.
There were no flies on Air Marshal Rexton, either. The two must have worked all night, after convincing t
hemselves by more calls to known danger spots that "technical interruptions" do not occur so conveniently. They called the Old Man about four a.m. and he called me, using our special phones. Those flesh-embedded receptors should not be used as alarm clocks; it's too rough a way to wake a man.
They were in the same conference room, Martinez, Rexton, a couple of his high brass, and the Old Man. The President came in, wearing a bathrobe and followed by Mary, just as I arrived. Martinez started to speak but the Old Man cut in. "Let's see your back, Tom!"
The President looked surprised and Mary signaled that everything was okay, but the Old Man chose not to see her. "I mean it," he persisted.
The President said quietly, "Perfectly correct, Andrew," and slipped his robe off his shoulders. His back was clean. "If I don't set an example, how can I expect others to cooperate?"
The Old Man started to help him back into the robe, but the President shrugged him off and hung it over a chair. "I'll just have to acquire new habits. Difficult, at my age. Well, gentlemen?"
I thought myself that bare skin would take getting used to; we made an odd group. Martinez was lean and tanned, carved smooth from mahogany. I'd judge he was part Indian. Rexton had a burned-in, high-altitude tan on his face, but from his collar line down he was as white as the President. On his chest was a black cross of hair, armpit to armpit and chin to belly, while the President and the Old Man were covered front and back with grizzled, wiry fur. The Old Man's mat was so thick that mice could have nested in it.
Mary looked like a publicity pic-low angle shot to bring out the legs and careful posing, that sort. Me-well. I'm the spiritual type.
Martinez and Rexton had been shoving push pins into a map, red for bad, green for good, and a few amber ones. Reports were still coming and Rexton's assistants kept adding new pins.
Iowa looked like measles; New Orleans and the Teche country were as bad. So was Kansas City. The upper end of the Missouri-Mississippi system, from Minneapolis and St. Paul down to St. Louis, was clearly enemy territory. There were fewer red pins from there down to New Orleans-but there were no green ones.
The Puppet Masters Page 12
