by Henry Slesar
“Just where you’d think, General. The USAF will take full charge of the actual expedition: arrange the flight, man the ship, launch it, and so forth. It was the President’s personal recommendation that you be the man to head up the endeavor.”
The General stood up. He didn’t say anything for a full ten seconds. When he did speak, there was a hushed quality in his normally gruff voice.
“I wonder if you know what this means to me,” he said.
“I hope it means you’re happy and excited,” Dr. Uhl said. “Just as I am.” Then he began to bustle with the locks on his briefcase. “But we don’t have time to talk about how happy we are, General. We’ve got work to do.”
There had been a great deal of work, and never did the days of General A. D. McIntosh go by with more speed or more satisfaction. The problems of constructing the huge space vessel were well in the hands of several hundred scientists and engineers, and his advice was rarely needed on that score. But there were a thousand other matters concerning the voyage that demanded his attention. One of the most irritating was a matter that occurred seven months after construction of the XY-21 was underway.
The finest security blanket in the history of the nation had been thrown over the entire project, but there were certain factions in the Government to whom the spaceship and its destination were no secret. One of these factions was a very powerful Congressional committee originally formed to investigate foreign aid expenditures. How its authority extended to Project XY remained a mystery to General McIntosh, who had never been politically-minded. But the effect of that authority, and the antagonism of the Senator who chairmaned the committee, became one of his gravest problems.
He met Senator Banyon at a cocktail party, a week before the official opening of the Congressional hearings, and the Senator smiled amiably and drew him aside.
Banyon was a handsome man, with silvery white hair and long sideburns. Had the General been more alert to the ways and means of political ambition, he might have recognized in the Senator a man who knew his way around a spotlight.
“This is an exciting business, General,” Banyon had said smoothly. “I envy you your little project.”
“Little project?” McIntosh growled. “I’d hardly call it that, Senator. It may well be the most important project in the world’s history.”
“Ah, yes. I should know that, of course. All you spacemen use the same phrase, don’t you? ‘Most important event in human history . . .’ That sort of excuses a lot, doesn’t it, General?” He smiled innocently.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. The whole concept of space travel is so awesome, so magnificent, so courageous—it’s difficult for anyone, say an insignificant Congressman—to criticize the project without appearing, shall we say, reactionary?”
The General sighed. “We’ll talk about it at the hearings, Senator. I came here to enjoy myself.”
“Naturally, naturally. But I thought, General, that if we got to know each other a little, that might expedite matters a little. I’ll make no secret as to what our line of inquiry will be next week. Money for one thing. I understand that the project cost is already well over a hundred and fifty million dollars. That’s a lot of taxpaying, General. Even you can see that.”
“Money isn’t my business, Senator.”
“No„of course not. But it’s mine. These precious minerals you talk about on Venus—I wonder if they’re worth a hundred and fifty million, General. Even if they are present in any quantity, they must still be mined and shipped. And who can say what conditions will prevail on the planet? If they make a successful landing. All sorts of problems intrude, don’t they, Senator?” He laughed pleasantly.
“There are other compensations,” the General grumbled. “There’s strategic value to the trip. Military value.”
“Oh? Such as what?”
McIntosh was angry— more with himself than the Senator. He was on the defensive, arguing, whining. He controlled himself and said:
“Let’s save it for the hearings, Senator. I’m going inside.”
“Certainly, General.” Ban-yon put his hand on McIntosh’s shoulder. “Anything you say. No reason for us to personally be at odds, eh?”
The private hearings on the subject of Project XY was probably the most trying period in the General A. D. McIntosh’s career. The testimony of the scientists and engineers was forthright and unemotional. His own testimony on the military and tactical benefits of the Venus trip was grueling. By the end of the four-week round of questioning, it began to appear as if Project XY was in mortal danger, even before the ship was launched.
Then, just as the rumors were blackest from Capitol Hill, there were reports of high-level maneuvers from the White House—'and all investigation was ended.
Senator Banyon didn’t seem chagrined at the decision. He was as pleasant as ever to General McIntosh, and the General was acute enough to realize that Banyon had lost nothing in political standing.
Then a new problem arose to overshadow all others. The problem of the crew.
Some eight hundred of the Air Force’s best men had been recruited in an attempt to find the seventeen that would eventually make the journey.
At the end of three months of intensive testing and examinations, Project XY found itself with only six acceptable candidates—six men who met the high standards of physical strength, coordination and endurance, intelligence and adaptability, knowledge and education, psychological aptness, and that indeterminate quality of spirit that was needed for such an endeavor.
“We must have dedicated men aboard this ship,” Dr. Sharman, the chief medical officer of the project told the General. “They must believe in this voyage with all their body, their mind, and their soul. It’s the only way.”
Hissing, the creature stood its ground.
* * *
The General’s eyes twinkled.
“Soul, Dr. Sharman?”
“Yes, General. There are many scientists who believe more intensely in the soul of man than laymen do. They see more wonders revealed; they have more reason to have faith. Some of them give it different names, but the essential faith is there.”
“That won’t solve our problem,” the General said glumly. “We can’t find the right men to meet the standards we’ve set as it is. Either we relax those standards—”
“No,” Sharman said. “We can’t afford to have one poor candidate aboard that ship, General; he could mean the death of the others and the death of our expedition. But I suggest we let a little human judgment into the examinations. Suppose we form a three-man committee: myself, yourself, and Dr. Uhl. We may be able to find the men.”
“We’ll try it,” the General said. He lifted some papers from his desk. “Then here’s a candidate we can pass judgment on right now. Intelligence report — excellent. Education—excellent. Psychological report — excellent. Medical report—only fair. This is an important man in an important position. The man is a botanist, a zoologist, and a physician of note; his knowledge will be very helpful.”
“And the fair medical report?”
“He didn’t do well in the gyroscope tests. Blacked out before the required number of g’s. But that doesn’t mean he won’t survive the flight, of course.” He grinned at the Doctor. “No, Dr. Sharman, I think you’ll survive it fine.”
Sharman flushed.
“Thank you, General. I will plan on surviving . . .”
In the Pentagon office, General McIntosh turned around.
Without looking at the two men in the room, he strode to the huge relief map that covered one wall of the sparsely-furnished office. He glowered at it, and jammed his thumb into the middle of the Mediterranean.
“From all indications, she’s splashed in somewhere right here.” And he added bitterly: “Twenty thousand leagues under the sea.”
“Perhaps not, General,” Dr. Uhl said hopefully. “It may be that Colonel Calder regained control.”
“
I appreciate your optimism, Doctor. But that’s the way it reads. Just like that.”
He traced his finger downward from Iceland across to France.
“We got a radar blip on her just off Iceland, two hundred miles altitude. Rate of descent—” He turned to his aide. “What was it, Major Stacey?”
“Thirty-five hundred feet per minute, sir.”
“Another sighting from Stillman in Marseilles. Rate of descent—still thirty-five hundred feet per minute.” He jabbed at the Mediterranean again. “Sorry, Doctor—but that puts her down with the fish.”
Dr. Uhl stared glumly at the map, and turned away. Quietly, his voice controlled, he said: “What makes me cry inside is that it was so close. So very, very close. They made it there. They almost made it back. And—”
The telephone rang, and the Major hurried to answer.
“Major Stacey speaking.”
His face began to brighten the moment the metallic voice 1 on the other end began to speak. He was almost grinning when he said: “Hold it! Tell the General!”
McIntosh snatched the receiver out of his hand.
“McIntosh . . . Yes? . . .
Where? Is that confirmed? . . . Thank you!”
“What is it?” Dr. Uhl said, trying to hold down his exuberance.
He looked up.
“She’s down off Sicily, Doctor!” He walked briskly back to the map. “Only a few kilometers off the coast of a fishing village named Gerra! Some fishermen saw it.”
His blunt finger rode over the map. It searched desperately until its stubby tip came finally to rest.
“Here it is!”
He turned to them swiftly. “All right, Major. We’ll need the cooperation and courtesy of the Italian Government, so get the State Department on the phone. Tell them we’ve got a green light from the White House, and tell them to get the Italian Embassy to clear a path for us.”
Dr. Uhl grinned. “You better tell ’em we’re in a hurry. Tell them to roll up their red tape and put it in a drawer and lock it up until this thing is over.”
“Yes, sir!” Stacey said, grinning the while.
“One more tiling,” the General continued. “Tell them Dr. Uhl and I want to leave and we want to leave now. For Sicily!”
CHAPTER III The Monster Emerges
NEVER had the fishermen of Gerra drawn such a curious catch from the sea. They gathered on the shore, buzzing and exclaiming, as Verrico and the others removed the two rescued men from the beached longboat to stretchers. The Commissario of Police, resplendent in his trim uniform, at last had his opportunity to demonstrate what a truly efficient man he was in a crisis.
“Take them to the Commune di Gerra,” he said. “Quickly! And you, Mondello. Fetch the doctor! Subito!”
“Si, Signore Commissario!” Mondello turned and ran, and the police chief whipped a notebook from his hip pocket and looked at Verrico. He jotted things down.
“You were inside the wreck. Were there only these two men aboard?”
“Si. I was inside with Mondello, and we saw one more man. But he was of a certainty dead.” Verrico shrugged, with great sadness. “But Signore Commissario — that ship of the air, she was so big, so vast, that surely there must have been other men inside, too.”
They looked at each other, two men of great soul and understanding, and their hearts were heavy.
Neither of them noticed Pepe, who was staring at the shoreline.
At first, he saw what appeared to be a dark bit of cloth, a floating garment of some kind. There was something else bobbing beside it, a metallic object. But the bit of cloth was in Pepe’s eyes, and he began to wade swiftly into the water.
He picked up the cloth thing. It was a leather jacket, still handsome and shining despite its soaking. He turned it around admiringly, covetously, and when he saw the initials USAF stenciled on the back, his face mirrored pure delight. Hurriedly, he wrung the water from the flying jacket, and looked around for other exciting discoveries in the debris of the fallen aircraft.
For a moment, he saw nothing but splinters of wood. Then, on the beach, he saw the flash of sunlight on metal, and he moved towards the object eagerly.
It was a cylinder, and the magic letters of the USAF were stamped on it, too. He picked it up; the surprising weight almost toppled him over. One end of the thing had clamps that secured the cap tightly; it resisted Pepe’s young fingers.
On the shore, a new problem was coming to the attention of the Commissario. Mondello returned from his errand with bad news.
“ Commissario! ” Mondello was wheezing, winded from his long run. “The doctore, he is not at home. He is far over at the Signora Martinelli’s who is immediately to have a bambino. Perhaps twins as before, who knows? And the Signore Martinelli— he is a very sick man.”
Soberly, the police chief said: “That is bad. Those men are in great need of—” He stopped. “One moment! There is that old doctore from Roma, traveling with his American granddaughter. Is he still here?”
The villagers shook their heads at the question.
Verrico said: “The man with the house on wheels? Pepe would know.”
He cupped his hands to his mouth and called to the boy at the water’s edge. “Pepe!” Then he looked at the Commissario and chuckled. “Pepe sells him worthless shellfish. Or anything else of no value. Pepe!”
The boy was startled by the call. He was just at the point of success with the cylinder’s stubborn cap when Verrico’s shout interrupted.
“Pepe!”
He looked wildly about for a place to hide his prize. He was forced to settle for a clump of sand, and went running to answer the call.
“Si, Verrico? You need me?”
“That old doctore from Rome who travels here. Do you know where he is?”
“Dr. Leonardo? He is camped on the Via Messina— only a small kilometer beyond the residence of Signore Greppi.”
The Commissario turned to Mondello. “You are aware of this place?”
“But of course.”
“Good. Beg the doctor to make haste.”
Mondello nodded, and ran off once more.
In Pepe’s eyes, there was relief. Now he could return to his find, to his metal cylinder with the fine letters of the American Air Force stamped across it! Who knows what wonders it held? Wonders of the great America. Perhaps even wonders of Taixas!
He picked up the object, its clamp now removed, and tilted it towards the sand.
The gelatinous blob moved slowly out of its prison, oozing its way forward with every shake of Pepe’s arm, until it finally dropped softly onto the sand.
Pepe stared at it, both fascinated and repelled.
It was about fifteen inches long, bulky, and sand was clinging to its slick, wet-looking surface.
The boy tossed the cylinder aside and reached out to touch the thing with his finger. Squeamishly, he yanked it back just at the point of contact. The thing didn’t react to the touch, so he tried it again.
Satisfied that the blob was inanimate, Pepe picked it up and brought it to the water. He dipped the thing in the surf to wash it of clinging sand, and looked at his prize once more.
It was smooth and semitransparent. There was something inside, something vague and shadowy, but nothing that Pepe’s young eyes could identify. He frowned at it in deep thought, and then was struck with an idea.
“Dr. Leonardo!” he said aloud.
His face radiant, he picked up the flying jacket and wrapped it cozily around the gelatinous mass. He ran off, his head whirling with exciting plans and prospects for the future.
Marisa Leonardo had long ago despaired of setting up normal housekeeping in her grandfather’s trailer. It wasn’t that the mobile home was cramped or uncomfortable; no, it was a perfect miniature of a cottage; She herself had picked out the furniture and accessories in Rome, not trusting her old grandfather to show good decorating sense.
“If you must live like a gypsy,” she had told him, with an affectionate smile o
n her face, “then you can at least travel in comfort.”
He had smiled back, and patted her hand.
“All right, little mother. But you must remember that I need working room, too. You must not clutter up my little rolling laboratory with antimacassars and potted plants.”
Now, three years later, Marisa stood in the trailer and brushed her glossy black hair away from her pretty, green-eyed face, and sighed. Her grandfather’s zoological equipment dominated and overran even the living quarters of the mobile house. The truck that pulled the trailer wasn’t enough to hold the accumulation of gear that Dr. Leonardo traveled with. His field utensils, his test tubes, his microscope, his mounted sea specimens were everywhere.
Marisa surveyed the clutter hopelessly, but there was no strong disapproval in her glance. She could never disapprove of her grandfather, or of anything that belonged to him. She owed him too much; she loved him too much.
Marisa’s parents had been killed when she was eight, when the bombs were falling to destroy the remnants of II Duce’s fascist machine. Her grandfather, Dr. Leonardo, had struggled through the poverty-stricken years that followed to provide a life for himself and his grandchild. As she grew older, her skill and tenderness with the sick created a desire for medical training. Somehow, Dr. Leonardo managed the means to send the girl to America, where relatives could care for her and see to her training in the fine medical universities of the great United States. In another year, she, too, would be called Doctor.
Marisa had worked hard. Her scholarship had eased the financial strain, enough to permit a long-awaited visit home. So why worry if the furniture was not so fine and polished any longer? Or if sea-things were crawling beneath the unmade bed.
She laughed, and set about to straighten the rumpled sheets.
In the next room, Dr. Leonardo heard the knock first. His gentle, scholarly face lifted from the study he was making of an overgrown snail. He went to the door and opened it.
“Dr. Leonardo?”
The man breathed a relieved sigh. He was stocky and strong, and there was anxiety in his face.
