Insofar as the republics of the world are concerned, this is not the way things should be done. Democracy demands, and rightly, that all men should have a voice in their government and in governmental decisions and actions, that all viewpoints be given full consideration, that there be no arbitrary decisions counter to the public will. But today we cannot afford the luxury of such an idealistic concept. The situation may not be handled as many of us would wish that it would be handled, some toes undoubtedly will be trod upon, certain ideas of justice and propriety may be outraged. But to accept all of this, if not in silence, at least without raising too great an outcry, is a part of that forbearance that is called for.
This is not one country that is threatened, not one political party nor one political fortune, not one people nor one region, but the entire world. This commentator has no way of knowing what will happen. I cannot even guess. I am aware that there may be much that I will not like, much that I will consider might have been done differently or better. In the past there has been no hesitancy on my part to place personal opinion upon record and at a later date, after this is over, I suppose I might not be above the pointing out of glaring errors as I may have perceived them. But from this day forward I shall, as a personal contribution to the forbearance which appears to me so necessary, exercise stern censorship upon, if not my thoughts, at least upon my typewriter. I am hereby enrolling myself as charter member in the Keep Your Mouth Shut, Enoch Club. The membership is wide open and I invite all of you to join.
33
He had somehow climbed a tree and got out on a limb and had been hanging onto it, for no reason that seemed quite logical, when a sudden violent wind had come up and now he was hanging grimly to the branch which was whipping in the wind. He knew that at any moment his grasp might be torn loose and he’d be thrown to the ground. But when he looked down, he saw, with horror, that there wasn’t any ground.
From somewhere far off a voice was speaking to him, but he was so intent on maintaining his grip upon the branch that he was unable to distinguish the words. The shaking became even more violent. “Steve,” the voice was saying. “Steve, wake up.” His eyes came open a slit and he realized that he was in no tree. A distorted face swam crazily just above him. No one had such a face.
“Wake up, Steve,” said a voice that was Henry Hunt’s. “The President is asking for you.” Wilson lifted a fist and scrubbed his eyes. The face, no longer distorted, was the face of Henry Hunt.
The face receded into the distance as the Times man straightened up. Wilson swung his feet off the couch, sat up. Sunlight was streaming through the windows of the press lounge.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Almost eight.”
Wilson squinted up at Hunt. “You get any sleep?” he asked.
“I went home for a couple of hours. I couldn’t sleep. Things kept spinning in my head. So I came back.” He picked a jacket off the floor. “This yours?” he asked.
Wilson nodded groggily. “I got to get washed up,” he said. “I got to comb my hair.”
He rose to. his feet, took the jacket from Hunt and tucked it underneath his arm. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“What you might expect,” said Hunt. “The wires are clogged with screams of anguish over the business holiday. How come you didn’t tip us off, Steve?”
“I didn’t know. He never said a word about it.”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Hunt. “We should have guessed it. Can you imagine what would have happened if the exchanges were open?”
“Any word about the monster?”
“Rumor. Nothing solid. One rumor says another got through in Africa. Somewhere in the Congo. Christ, they’ll never find it there.”
“The Congo’s not all jungle, Henry.”
“Where it’s supposed to have happened, it is.”
Wilson headed for the washroom. When he returned, Hunt had a cup of coffee for him.
“Thanks,” he said. He sipped the hot brew and shuddered. “I don’t know if I can face the day,” he said. “Any idea of what the President has in mind?”
Hunt shook his head.
“Judy in yet?”
“Not yet, Steve.”
Wilson put the cup, still half full, down on the coffee table. “Thanks for getting me up and going,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
He went through the door into the pressroom. The lamp he had forgotten to turn off still shone feebly down upon the desk. In the corridor outside footsteps went smartly up and down. He straightened his jacket and went out.
Two men were with the President. One was General Daniel Foote, the other was one of the refugees, rigged out in a mountain-man outfit.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” said Wilson.
“Good morning, Steve. You get any sleep?”
“An hour or so.”
“You know General Foote, of course,” said the President. “The gentleman with him is Isaac Wolfe. Dr. Wolfe is a biologist. He brings us rather frightening news. I thought that you should hear it.”
Wolfe was a heavy man—heavy of body, deep in the chest, standing on short, solid legs. His head, covered by a rat-nest of graying hair, seemed oversize.
He stepped quickly forward and shook Wilson’s hand. “I am sorry,” he said, “to be the bearer of such disturbing facts.”
“Last night,” said the President, “rather sometime this morning, a farmer not far from Harper’s Ferry was wakened by something in his chicken coop. He went out and found the henhouse full of strange beasts, the size, perhaps, of half-grown hogs. He fired at them and they got away, all except one which the shotgun blast almost cut in two. The farmer was attacked. He’s in the hospital. He’ll live, I’m told, but he was fairly well chewed up. From what he says there can be little doubt the things in the henhouse were a new batch of the monsters.”
“But that’s impossible,” said Wilson. “The monster escaped only a few.…”
“Dr. Wolfe came to me last evening,” said Foote, “shortly after the monster escaped from the tunnel. I frankly didn’t believe what he told me, but when the report of the henhouse episode came in from an officer of a search party out in West Virginia, I looked him up and asked him to come to the White House. I’m sorry, Doctor, for not believing you to start with.”
“But it’s still impossible,” said Wilson.
“No, no,” said Wolfe. “It is not impossible. We are dealing here with an organism entirely different from anything you’ve ever known. The evolutionary processes of these monsters are like nothing you have ever guessed. Their reaction to environmental stress is beyond all belief. We had known something of it and had deduced the rest, but I am convinced that under stresses such as the escaped monster is experiencing, the developmental procedures can be speeded up to a fantastic rate. An hour or so to hatch, an hour later hunting food. The same pressure that is placed upon the parent is transmitted to the young. For both the parent and the young this is a crisis situation. The parent is aware of this, of course; the young, of course, would not be. But in some strange manner which I can’t pretend to know, a sense of desperate urgency is transmitted to the egg. Hatch swiftly, grow up quickly, scatter widely, reach the egg-laying stage as soon as possible. It is a genetic reaction to a survival threat. The young monsters would be driven by an evolutionary force that in an earthly life form would be inconceivable. They are members of a strange race that has a unique, an inborn, capability to use every trick in the evolutionary pattern to its advantage.”
Wilson found a chair and sat down limply. He looked at the President. “Has any of this leaked out?”
“No,” said the President, “it has not. The farmer’s wife phoned the sheriff. The military search party had just reached the area and was talking with the sheriff when the call came in. The officer in charge clamped on a security lid. That is why you’re here, Steve. We can’t keep this buttoned up. It’ll leak out—if not this particular incident, then others. There may be h
undreds of these tiny monsters out there in the mountains. They’ll be seen and reported. The reports will begin to pile up. We can’t sit on all of them, nor should we.”
“The problem,” said Wilson, “is how to release the news without scaring the pants off everybody.”
“If we don’t tell them,” said the President, “we create a credibility gap that will make everything we do suspect. And there is, as well, the matter of public safety.”
“In a few days,” said Foote, “all the mountains will be full of full-grown monsters. They probably will scatter. We can hunt some of them down, but not all of them. Probably only a small percentage of them. The only way we can manage it is to put in every man we can lay our hands on to hunt them down.”
“They will scatter, that is right,” said Wolfe. “By scattering, they will insure their chances of survival. And they can travel fast. By another day, perhaps, they’ll be up in New England, down into Georgia. They will keep, at first, to the mountainous terrain because it would give them the best concealment. In time they’ll begin branching out from the mountains.”
“How long would you guess,” asked Wilson, “before they begin laying eggs?”
Wolfe spread his hands. “Who can know?” he said.
“Your best guess.”
“A week. Two weeks. I do not know.”
“How many eggs in a clutch?”
“A couple of dozen. You must understand we do not know. We found only a few nests.”
“When will they begin their killing?”
“Now. Right now. They must eat to grow. They must do a lot of killing. Wild animals, farm animals, occasionally humans. Not many humans to start with. By killing men they draw attention to themselves. Warlike as they may be, they still will know they are vulnerable because there are so few of them. They may be psychopathic killers, but they aren’t stupid.”
“We have some troops out now,” said the President. “We’ll have to use many more. Get planes and helicopters up to spot the monsters. I talked to Sandburg just a while ago. He is coming in. He’ll know what we can do. This means we call out the reserves, perhaps call back some troops from abroad. Not only do we have to hunt the monsters, but we have to maintain the camps for the refugees.”
“We do not wish to stand idly by,” said Wolfe. “There are many thousands of us. Give us arms and we’ll go in side by side with your military. We know about these creatures and we were the ones who brought them here. We have a duty and.…”
“Later,” said the President, “there’ll be plenty you can do. Getting you into the field would be a tremendous task. Right at the moment we must depend upon our own men.”
“How about the people out there in the mountains?” asked Wilson. “Do we pull them out?”
The President shook his head. “I don’t think so, Steve. We have, right now, all the refugees we can handle. And I’m inclined to think that at the moment our monsters may not be too aggressive. They’re probably concentrating on staying out of sight. There may be some incidents, but we must be prepared to accept those. It’s all that we can do.”
“I think, sir, that you are right,” said Wolfe. “They are outnumbered now and must build up their strength. In any event, the young aliens will not, for a time, be too great a menace. They’ll have to put on some size and weight. I suppose that, as well, they may know that they face more deadly weapons, in much greater numbers, than we could ever bring against them. We had lived in peace so long we had lost most of the military techniques and we started from scratch in weapon building.”
“You face a busy day, Mr. President,” said Foote. “If there is nothing further that you wish from us.…”
The President rose and came around the desk. He shook both by the hand. “Thanks for coming by,” he said. “This is something we must get busy on immediately.”
Wilson rose to leave. “Do I call in the press immediately?” he asked. “Or should I wait until after you have talked with Defense?”
The President hesitated, considering. “I should think right away,” he said. “I’d like for us to be the first to tell them. The military has the lid clamped down, but it won’t stay clamped for long. Some of the people from the Hill are coming in to see me. It would be better if they knew about this before they arrived.”
“There’s another matter,” said Wilson. “You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. There’s a dispatch case full of diamonds.…”
“Diamonds? What have diamonds got to do with this?”
“It’s a rather awkward business, sir,” said Wilson. “You recall that case Gale was carrying.…”
“There were diamonds in that case?”
“It was packed with sacks. He opened one sack and poured out diamonds on the desk. He told me the rest of the sacks also contained diamonds and I’m inclined to believe him. The refugees had the idea they could turn them over to us to pay whatever was laid out to send them back to the Miocene.”
“I would like to have seen your face,” said the President, “when he poured out the diamonds. What, may I ask, did you do about it?”
“I called in Jerry Black and put Gale under guard. I insisted that he keep the diamonds.”
“I guess,” said the President, “that was all that you could do. I think maybe I should call in the Treasury to take temporary custody and check with Reilly Douglas about the legality of it all. Did you get any idea how much the diamonds might be worth?”
“Gale said, at present prices, perhaps a trillion dollars. That is, if they can be fed into the market slowly, without depressing prices. They’re not, you understand, for us alone, but for the entire world. Gale wants to leave them with us, in trust for all the governments. He said we were the only government they felt that they could trust.”
“You realize, of course, how sticky this could be? If word of this leaked out.…”
“To be entirely fair,” said Wilson, “we still must realize that they are only trying to be helpful. They want to pay their way.”
“Yes, I know,” said the President. “We’ll have to see what Reilly says about it.”
34
Since early morning the crowd had been gathering in Lafayette Park across the avenue from the White House. It was still the quiet and watchful group that had stood the Sunday vigil, with its stolid watchfulness. But now there were a few placards and there had been none before. One of the placards, crudely lettered, read BACK TO THE MIOCENE. Another read BRING ON YOUR SABERTOOTHS. Still another: LET US LEAVE THIS LOUSY WORLD.
A newsman pushed his way through the crowd, zeroing in on the whiskered youth who bore the BACK TO THE MIOCENE placard.
“Would you mind telling me,” he asked, “what is going on?”
“Man,” said the youth impatiently, “it is there for you to read. It says it loud and clear.”
“It puzzles me,” said the newsman, “what you are trying to prove. Or don’t you have a point to make?”
“No points this time,” the sign carrier told him. “In the past we have tried to prove some points and have mostly gotten nowhere.” He made a thumb in the direction of the White House. “The man don’t listen too good. No one listens too good.”
“This time,” said a girl who stood beside the sign carrier, “we’re not proving anything at all. We’re simply saying what we want to do and that’s go back to the Miocene.”
“Or the Eocene,” said another girl. “Or the Paleocene. Just anywhere at all to get away from this scruffy place. We want to leave this crummy world and get another start. We want to go back and build the kind of world we want. We’ve been trying for years to change this society and we’ve gotten just exactly nowhere. And when we saw we couldn’t change it, we tried to get out of it. That’s what the communes are all about. But the society won’t let us go. It reaches out and hauls us back. It will not let us go.”
“Finally,” said the sign carrier, “here’s a way to get shut of it. If these people from the future can travel to the past
, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t. There aren’t many people who would be sorry to see us go. Most of them would be glad to see us go.”
“I suppose,” said the newsman, “that this could be called a movement. Most of the other things you people have done have been labeled movements. Would you mind telling me how many of you.…”
“Not at all,” said the first girl. “Not more than fifteen or twenty of us now. But you write your story and let us get a news spot on television and there’ll be thousands of us. They’ll be coming from Chicago and New York, from Boston and Los Angeles. There’ll be more of us than this town can hold. Because, you see, this is the first real chance we’ve had to get away.”
“That’s all right,” the newsman said. “I can see your point. But how do you go about it? Storm across the street and pound on the White House door?”
“If you mean,” said the sign carrier, “that no one will pay attention to us, you may be right. But twenty-four hours from now they’ll pay attention to us. Forty-eight hours from now they’ll be out here in the street talking with us.”
“But you realize, of course, there are no time tunnels yet. There may never be. It will take materials and manpower.…”
“They got their manpower right here, mister. All anyone has to do is ask. Hand us picks and shovels. Hand us wrenches. Hand us anything at all and tell us what to do. We’ll work until we drop. We’ll do anything to get away from here. We don’t want any pay for working; we don’t want anything at all except to be allowed to go.”
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