The farmer at the buildings up the hollow thought he had seen something. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it had been awful, the glimpse he had gotten of it. A sort of thing that he had never seen before. Something that no man could imagine. The farmer had shivered as he talked.
The thing that had been in the thicket came out. It came out with a rush so fast that it seemed to blur. Then, as quickly as it had moved, it stopped. It stood in the little open space of ground between the thicket and the corn.
The sergeant caught his breath and his guts turned over, but even so he swiveled the launcher barrel around so that the cross hairs centered on the great paunch of the monster and his finger began the steady squeeze.
Then it was gone. The cross hairs centered on nothing except the ragged clump of brush beyond the cornfield’s edge. The sergeant didn’t stir. He lay looking through the sight, but his finger slacked off from the trigger.
The monster had not moved. He was sure of that. It had simply disappeared. One microsecond there, the next microsecond gone. It could not move that fast. When it had come out of the thicket there had been a blur of rapid movement. This time there had been no blur.
Sergeant Clark raised his head, levered himself to his knees. He put up a hand and wiped his face and was astonished to find that his hand came away greasy wet. He’d not been aware that he had been sweating.
38
Fyodor Morozov was a good diplomat and decent man, the two not being incompatible, and he hated what he had to do. Besides, he told himself, he knew Americans and it simply would not work. It would, of course, embarrass them and point out their sins for all the world to see and, under ordinary circumstances, he would not have been averse to this. But under present conditions, he knew, the Americans (or anyone else, for that matter) were in no position to observe the niceties of diplomatic games, and because of this, there was no way one could gauge reaction.
The President was waiting for him when he was ushered in and beside the President, as was to be expected, stood the Secretary of State. The President was all open blandness, but Thornton Williams, Fyodor could see, was a somewhat puzzled man, although he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.
When they had shaken hands and sat down, the President opened the conversation. “It’s always good to see you, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, “for any reason, or even for no reason. But tell me, is there something we can do for you?”
“My government,” said Fyodor, “has asked me to confer with your government, as unofficially as our official positions can make possible, concerning a matter of security which I would assume is of some concern to both of us, in fact, to everyone.”
He paused and they waited for him to go on. They did not respond; they asked no question; they were no help at all.
“It is the matter,” he said, “of the alien monster that escaped from the Congo tunnel. There is no question, knowing what we do, that the monsters must be hunted down. Since the Congo does not have sufficient military or police forces to accomplish this, my government is offering to supply an expeditionary force and we are about to sound out both Britain and France and perhaps other nations as well to determine if they might want to contribute to a joint expeditionary force against the monster.”
“Certainly, Ambassador,” said Williams, “your government does not feel compelled to seek our permission to embark upon so neighborly an undertaking. I would imagine that you are prepared to make guarantees that you’ll withdraw all forces immediately the monster has been taken.”
“Of course we are.”
“Then I fail to grasp your point.”
“There is also,” said Fyodor, “the matter of the monster, or the monsters—I understood that now there are a number of them—on your own territory. We are prepared to make the same offer to you as we will make the Congo.”
“You mean,” said the President, amused, “that you would be willing to lend us some of your forces to hunt down the monsters.”
“We would go, I think,” said the ambassador, “somewhat beyond the word you use—willing. I would think that unless you can guarantee absolute effectiveness in containing and disposing of the monsters, we might possibly insist. This is not a national matter; the international community is concerned. The creatures must be obliterated. If you can’t accomplish this, then you must accept any help that’s offered.”
“You know, of course,” said Williams, “that we are bringing home our troops.”
“I know that, Mr. Secretary, but the question is how quickly can you bring them home. Our military people estimate it will take you thirty days at least and that may not be fast enough. There also is the question of whether you have personnel enough to cover the required territory.”
The President said, “I can assure you that we appreciate your concern.”
“It is the position of my government,” said Fyodor, “that while naturally you wish to use your own troops, many more men would be placed upon the ground and more quickly if you would accept the aid that we offer and which I am sure other nations as well would offer if you made known your willingness.…”
“Mr. Ambassador,” said the President, interrupting, “I am certain you know better than to come to us with such an impudent suggestion. If there had been genuine good will on the part of your government, surely you are aware that a different approach would have been employed. There is no question in my mind that the sole purpose of this call is to embarrass us. In that, of course, you’ve failed. We are not in the least embarrassed.”
“I am delighted that you’re not,” said Fyodor, unruffled. “We thought that it was only the decent thing to approach you first, in private.”
“I assume,” said Williams, “you mean you now will bring the matter up before the UN, where you’ll seek to embarrass us in public.”
“You gentlemen,” said the ambassador, “persist in placing a wrong interpretation upon the matter. It is true, of course, that our countries have had their differences in the past. We have not always seen exactly eye to eye. Under present circumstances, however, the entire world need stand together. It is only with this thought that we bring the matter forward. It is quite clear to us, if it is not to you, that solving the monster problem quickly is in the international interest and that it is your duty to accept such aid as may be needed. We should be reluctant to report to the United Nations that you neglect your duty.”
“We would not attempt,” said Williams stiffly, “to suggest what you might tell the UN.”
“If you should decide to accept our offer,” said the ambassador, “it would be agreeable to us to leave the initiative with you. If you should ask other nations—perhaps Canada, Britain, France and us—to supply the additional forces that you need, there need be nothing said concerning this particular conversation. The newsmen, of course, will know that I am here and will ask me about it, but I shall tell them it was only a part of the continuing discussion which is going on between our two countries concerning the refugee situation. That sort of answer, it seems to me, would be a logical one and probably acceptable.”
“I suppose,” said the President, “that you will want an answer to relay to your government.”
“Not necessarily now,” said Fyodor. “We would imagine you might want to deliberate upon it. The UN does not meet until tomorrow noon.”
“I imagine that if we asked some of our friends among the community of nations to supply us forces and did not include your government among them, you would feel slighted and be indignantly offended.”
“I cannot speak to that with any surety, but I would presume we might be.”
“It seems to me,” said the Secretary of State, “that all of this is no more than official mischief-making. I have known you for some years and have held a high regard for you. You have been here among us for three years, or is it four—more than three years, anyhow—and surely you have grown to know us in that length of time. I think that your heart may not be entirely in these proceedings.�
��
Fyodor Morozov rose slowly to his feet. “I have delivered the message from my government,” he said. “Thank you both for seeing me.”
39
In New York, in Chicago, in Atlanta mobs hurled themselves against police lines. The signs read: WE DIDN’T ASK THEM TO COME. They read: WE HAVE LITTLE ENOUGH AS IT IS. They read: WE REFUSE TO STARVE. The crowds threw objects, stones, bricks, tin cans battered into tin-shinny pucks so they had cutting edges, plastic bags filled with human excrement. The ghetto areas were filled with shouting and with violence. Some died; many were injured. Bonfires were kindled. Houses burned and when fire rigs tried to reach the blazes, they were stopped by barricades. Great areas were given over to looting.
In little towns throughout the country grim-faced men talked—sitting on benches in front of general stores, filling stations, feed stores, stopping at street corners, gathering for coffee in the corner drugstore, waiting their turns in barbershops. They said to one another, among themselves, bewildered: It don’t seem right, somehow. It don’t seem possible. It ain’t like the old days, when one knew what was going on. There ain’t no telling, these days, what is about to happen, what will happen next. There is too much new-fangled now. The old days are going fast. There is nothing left for a man to hang to.… They said judiciously: Of course, if it is the way they say, we got to do our best for them. You heard the President say it last night. Children of our children. That is what he said. Although I don’t know how we are going to do it. Not with taxes what they are. We can’t pay no more taxes than we are and them tunnels are about to cost a mint. Taxes on everything you buy. On everything you do. On everything you own. Seems no matter how hard a man may scratch he can’t keep ahead of taxes.… They said sanctimoniously: That preacher down in Nashville hit it on the head. If a man loses his religion he has lost everything worthwhile. He has nothing left to live for. You lose the Good Book and you have lost it all. It don’t seem possible that even in five hundred years men would have given up their God. It’s the evil in the world today, right now, that made it possible. It’s big-city living. The meanness of big-city living. Out here you could never lose your God. No, sir. He’s with you all the time. You feel Him in the wind. You see Him in the color of the eastern sky just before the break of dawn. You sense Him in the hush of evening. I feel sorry for these people from the future. I do feel purely sorry for them. They don’t know what they lost.… They said angrily of the riots: They ought to shoot them down. I wouldn’t fool around with stuff like that. Not for a minute would I. Those people, some of them ain’t never done a lick of work in all their entire lives. They just stand there with their hands out. You can’t tell me, if a man really wants to work, or a woman either, they can’t find a job. Out here we scratch and dig and sweat and we get next to nothing, but we don’t riot, we don’t burn, we don’t stand with hands out.… They said of the young people with the signs in Lafayette Park: If they want to go to the Miocene or whatever this place is, why don’t we let them go? We won’t never miss them. We would be better off without them.… The village banker said, with ponderous judiciousness: Mark my word, we’ll be lucky if these future folks don’t ruin the entire country. Yes, sir, the entire country; maybe the entire world. The dollar will be worth nothing and prices will go up.… And inevitably they got around to it, whispering the blackest of their thoughts: You just wait and see. It’s a Commie plot, I tell you. A dirty Commie plot. I don’t know how they worked it, but when the wash comes out, we’ll find these Russians at the bottom of it.…
There was marching in the land, a surge toward Washington—by hitchhiking, by bus, by old beat-up clunkers of cars. An inward streaming of the countercultural young. Some of them reached the city before the fall of night and marched with banners saying: Back To The Miocene; Bring On The Sabretooths! Others continued through the night or rested in the night to continue with first light, sleeping in haystacks or on park benches, wolfing hamburgers, seeking out alliances, talking in hushed tones around campfires.
Other bands marched as well in the streets of Washington, bands in the center of which were young men staggering under the weight of heavy crosses, stumbling and falling, then staggering up again to continue on their way. Some wore crowns of thorns, with blood trickling down their foreheads. Late in the afternoon a furious fight broke out in Lafayette Park when an indignant crowd, among them many of the hopefully Miocene-bound youngsters, moved to stop a crucifixion, with the victim already lashed to the cross and the hole half dug for its planting. Police charged in and after a bloody fifteen minutes cleared the park. When all were gone, four crudely fashioned crosses were gathered up and carted off. “These kids are crazy,” said one panting officer. “I wouldn’t give you a dime for the entire lot of them.”
Senator Andrew Oakes phoned Grant Wellington. “Now is the time,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, “to lie extremely low. Don’t say a word. Don’t even look as if you were interested. The situation, you might say, is fluid. There is nothing set. No one knows which way the cat will jump. There is something going on. The Russian was at the White House this morning and that bodes no good for anyone. Something we don’t understand is very much afoot.”
Clinton Chapman phoned Reilly Douglas. “You know anything, Reilly?”
“Nothing except that there really is time travel and we have the blueprints for it.”
“You have seen the blueprints?”
“No, I haven’t. It all is under wraps. No one is saying anything. The scientists who talked with the future people aren’t talking.”
“But you.…”
“I know, Clint. I’m the Attorney General, but, hell, in a thing like this that doesn’t count for anything. This is top secret. A few of the Academy crowd and that is all. Not even the military, and even if the military wanted it, I have my doubts …”
“But they have to let someone know. You can’t build a thing until you know.”
“Sure, how to build it, but that is all. Not how it works. Not why it works. Not the principle.”
“What the hell difference does that make?”
“I should think it would,” said Douglas. “I, personally, would be distrustful of building something I didn’t understand.”
“You say it is time travel. No doubt of that, it is really time travel.”
“No doubt at all,” said Douglas.
“Then there’s a mint in it,” said Chapman, “and I mean to.…”
“But if it only works one way—”
“It has to work both ways,” said Chapman. “That’s what my people tell me.”
“It will take a lot of financing,” said Douglas.
“I’ve talked to a lot of people,” said Chapman. “People I can trust. Some of them are interested. Enough of them. Definitely interested. They see the possibilities. There’ll be no lack of funds if we can put it through.”
Judy Gray got on the plane and found her seat. She looked out the window, saw the scurrying trucks—saw them mistily and quickly put up a hand to wipe her eyes. She said to herself, almost lovingly, through clenched teeth: “The son of a bitch. The dirty son of a bitch!”
40
Tom manning spoke guardedly into the phone. “Steve,” he said, “I have been hearing things.”
“Put them on the wire, Tom,” said Wilson. “That is why you are there. Put them on the wire for the glory of dear old Global News.”
“Now,” said Manning, “that you’ve had occasion to show off your shallow sense of humor, shall we get down to business?”
“If this is a ploy,” said Wilson, “to trick me into seeming confirmation of some rumor you have heard, you know that it won’t work.”
“You know me better than that, Steve.”
“That’s the trouble, I do know you.”
“All right, then,” said Manning, “if that’s the way of it, let’s start at the beginning. The President had the Russian ambassador in this morning.…”
“The President didn’t
have him him. He came in on his own. The ambassador made a statement to the press. You know about that.”
“Sure, we know what the ambassador said and what you said in this afternoon’s briefing, which, I might say, added very little light to the situation. But no one in town, no one in his right mind, that is, buys what either of you said.”
“I’m sorry about that, Tom. I told all I knew.”
“OK,” said Manning. “I’ll take your word for that. It’s just possible that you weren’t told. But there’s a very nasty story being whispered up at the UN in New York. At least, it was whispered to our man up there. I don’t know how much farther it has gone. Our man didn’t put it on the wire. He phoned me and I told him to hold it until I talked with you.”
“I don’t have the least idea, Tom, of what you’re talking about. I had honestly assumed the ambassador told all that could be told. There have been some conversations with Moscow and it sounded reasonable. The President didn’t tell me differently. We mentioned it, I guess, but we didn’t talk about it. There were so many other things.”
“All right, then,” said Manning, “here’s the story as I heard it. Morozov talked to Williams and the President and offered troops to help hunt down the monster and the offer was rejected.…”
“Tom, how good is your source? How sure are you of this?”
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