For a moment, he couldn’t. He was being pulled in two directions at once. Panic tugged at him, panic that threatened momentarily to seize control of his legs and send him bolting to the safety of the old flyer that sat in the landing lock. Against this urge to flee was the dawning realization that they were no longer playing a game which could be discontinued at will. It was like a nightmare where one has suddenly lost the saving knowledge that he can always wake up if things get too bad.
TO run or to stand, to retreat from grim reality or to face it—the decision had to be made. Bill was standing on the line that separates the child from the man and he had to move one way or the other. He looked at the menacing shape on the screen, then at the frightened faces of the other boys who were waiting for him to take the lead.
He dropped his eyes and it seemed as if the deck plates beneath his feet had turned to glass, so that he could see the smug, defenseless world that stretched out below. A tidy, rational world that had long ago given up such childish things as arms and armies—and spaceships. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low they could hardly hear him.
“We’ve got to stay,” he said. When the words penetrated, there was a shuffling of feet and a muttering of disagreement. “We shouldn’t have come out here in the first place!” said Wimpy.
Second Lieutenant Randolph began to sniffle. “I want to go home,” he announced. “Right now!”
“Me too,” said Ozaki, “and I’m going. Let’s get out of here before it’s too late.” He started to sidle toward the door. The rest wavered, then began to follow him.
Bill hesitated only a moment, then dashed across the control room and slammed the door shut. “Wait!” he shouted, throwing himself in front of it. “It’s already too late. You can’t get away now.”
Captain Shirey forgot about military courtesy and cocked one hard fist under his superior’s nose. “You get out of the way or you’re going to get a bust on the snoot!”
“You’ve got to listen to me,” said Bill frantically. “That thing’s only a mile away from us and we’re three hundred miles out from Earth. You saw how fast it can go. If it’s looking for trouble, do you think it’s just going to sit by and let us pull away in that old flyer?”
Wimpy started to answer and then stopped. He let his fist drop slowly to his side. “Maybe you’re right,” he said slowly. “But if we don’t run, then what?”
“Just sit for a while and see what happens. From the way that ship’s acting, they must figure the Glorious has been abandoned. They’d never have come this close, if they didn’t. If they’re just snooping around and don’t catch on that anybody’s in here, maybe they’ll just go away.” There were wistful glances toward the door, but after a moment, the whole contingent straggled back to their positions.
As they watched the alien ship, a square hatch opened in its gleaming spherical hull. There was a suggestion of movement and then a long, torpedo-shaped object slowly emerged and floated free alongside the ship. There was something seated on it—something that wasn’t human! It wore a wheel-shaped spacesuit with a hemispherical vision dome bulging out from the center.
THERE was a little spurt of flame from the rear of the torpedo and then it sped away from the alien ship, twisting and looping about. The thing riding on it moved busily for a moment, adjusting the controls. Then he brought it to a halt with its nose pointing toward the Glorious.
“What do you think they’re figuring on doing with that?” asked Wimpy in a shaky voice. “Using it on us.”
“What for?”
“How many other spaceships does Earth have? Once the Glorious is knocked out, there’s nothing left that can be used against them.”
“But this thing can’t fight,” protested Wimpy. “And there’s nobody left that knows how to run her.”
“She could fight once,” said Bill grimly. “Maybe she still can. And there is somebody left to run her—us!” He turned his back to the screen and snapped, “Stations!” The Guard slowly took on a semblance of order.
“All positions on. And I mean really on! We aren’t playing any longer. I want an immediate report on the condition of this tub.” There was hesitation for a moment, then a sudden flurry of action at each position as switches were thrown and instruments read. When they came, the reports weren’t very encouraging. “All drives disconnected.”
The Glorious couldn’t run away.
“No missiles in the racks.”
“No shells in the lockers.”
The Glorious couldn’t fight. “There’s got to be something,” said Bill as he went over to the gunnery station. The Guardsman at the controls looked up unhappily and pointed to the long row of little red plates that registered the number of rounds available for each gun. Each was blinking out the word EMPTY. “Turrets and automatic trackers are still operational, but that doesn’t help any.”
Bill stood thinking a minute. “Maybe it can,” he said finally and went back to the coordination board. “Look, gang,” he said. “What we know and what they know are two different things. They’ve no way of knowing that those guns aren’t loaded. Maybe we can pull a bluff.”
“And if we can’t?” said somebody.
He shrugged. “Somebody got a better idea? We can’t just sit here and let them blow up the ship.”
WIMPY let out a sudden shout and pointed toward the screen. Bill spun around and saw the alien was leaving the torpedo and returning to his ship. He felt a sudden dryness in his throat.
“This is it!” he. yelled. “All guns on target!”
There was a growl of powerful motors as the turrets, set in blisters along the top and sides of the Glorious, swung swiftly to zero-in their long-muzzled guns on the alien ship. There was no reaction for a moment, and then a long burst of sound came from the wall speakers.
“Do you want to answer that?” Bill shook his head. “Better if we don’t talk. Maybe they’ve got some sort of a translator over there. If I start shooting off my mouth, I might say the wrong thing.”
“Bill!” There was a shout from the detection station.
“Yeah?” He didn’t look away from the screen. The torpedo still hung motionless, its nose pointed toward the Glorious.
“I think they’re trying to make visual contact.”
“See if you can pick them up.” Bill ordered.
There was a flickering in the reproduction cube of the tri-V receiver and, slowly, a distorted replica of the control room of the alien ship began to materialize. Then, as the Guardsman at the communication station struggled with his controls, the scene cleared.
There were seven of them. They weren’t humanoid—they looked like huge furry footballs—but they weren’t the slavering monstrosities that Bill and the rest had half expected.
“Turn on our transmitter.” After a brief warm-up period, there was a bouncing of aliens and their own screen lit up. Bill stepped forward and, as sternly as he could, made a stabbing motion toward Earth with a bent forefinger. There was a small commotion while all the fur balls rolled together to form a huddle. Then one of them went bouncing over to a set of controls at the far end of their control room.
“The bluff didn’t work,” gasped Wimpy. “They’re going to blast us with that torp!”
“Not yet,” said Bill. “Gunnery!”
“Yes?”
“Automatic trackers on!”
The Guardsman at the gunnery station looked puzzled, but he didn’t ask any questions. His hands slid forward and the parabolic mirrors that projected the UHF beams—that had once controlled the guided missiles carried by the Glorious—swung until they were centered on the silver sphere.
“Carriers on!”
“Check.”
THERE was a sudden flurry of movement in the alien control rooms as their detectors gave warning of the beams that were striking their hull. Bill faced the tri-V scanner and held up his hand for attention. There was some more scuttling and then all the aliens faced toward their own screen. Bill withdrew one o
f the odd-shaped weapons that hung at his hip and held it up so they could see it.
“Get over here, Wimpy.”
“What for?”
“Hurry up. And play it straight.”
The freckle-faced second in command marched over with a military stride and saluted. “Q-ray,” said Bill. “Get it?” Wimpy started to protest and then caught himself. “Sounds crazy to me,” he muttered, “but you’re the boss.”
Bill’s side-arm was a complicated affair with two short barrels, one capped with a green lens and the other with a red. He held the weapon out to call attention to it and then raised it and pressed a stud on the stock three times. Three bursts of red light flared out briefly.
“Give them three quick flips on the missile beams.”
The Guardsman hit the cut-off button one, two, three.
Bill’s gun flashed red three more times.
“Once more should give them the idea.”
Again the carrier beams were clicked on and off.
“Make this good.” Bill pointed the weapon deliberately at Wimpy and pressed the stud. Captain Shirey stood at attention, a circle of red light glowing on his chest.
“Now!” There was a sudden green flash as Bill jerked the other trigger.
Immediately Wimpy let out a bloodcurdling yell and then, clawing at his chest, collapsed in a writhing heap on the floor. Bill turned back to the scanner and pointed to his gun again.
“Three more.” By the time the barrier beams had struck the other ship twice, chaos had let loose in its control room.
“What’s happening?”
It was hard to tell. They were lined up in a row, their pink underbodies tilted toward the ceiling, and weak little leglike organs waving wildly.
“I think,” said Colonel Faust slowly, “that they’re standing on their heads.”
But surrender was not negotiated without some difficulty. The alien who seemed to be the commander kept bouncing in and out of one of a pair of metallic cups that projected from a complex mechanism at one side of the control room. Bill finally got the idea.
“I think they’ve got some sort of a mechanical translator and they want me to come over.”
There was a protest from the floor. “You can’t go there!”
“Shut up!” said Bill. “You’re supposed to be dead. Do you want to give the whole show away?” Wimpy subsided obediently. “I’ve got to go over. We can’t escort them down and, once they find out that we aren’t following, there’s nothing to keep them from making a run for it. I’ll take the flyer over. There’s a three-quarter-size pressure suit in the luggage compartment that I think I can get into. Keep me covered.”
“With what?” softly mumbled Wimpy.
LATER, with one exception, the Solar Guard stood at attention as a small red dot crawled toward one corner of the detection screen.
“Can I get up now?” said a plaintive voice.
Colonel Bill Faust looked down at the sprawled form of his second in command and then suddenly doubled up and began to emit strangled sounds that were half sobs and half laughter. He finally recovered enough to reach down and pull Wimpy to his feet.
“You were real good, Wimpy. Real good!” He went off into another hysterical paroxysm.
Wimpy grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop it! Why did you let them go?”
“They—they . . .” Bill choked, gasped and then tried again. “They couldn’t stay any longer. They had to get home for supper.”
“They what?” gasped Wimpy.
“They had to get home for supper.” Bill pointed at the screen. “And there they go.”
FASTER, the red dot went, and faster still and then it flicked out of sight.
“I’ll bet that’s the last time they come snooping around the Reservation,” said Bill with a mysterious grin.
“The what?”
“The Reservation. That’s this whole star cluster.”
Wimpy advanced purposefully and waved a fist threateningly. “Are you going to tell us what happened or do we have to beat it out of you?”
Bill worked hard to control himself. “Suppose,” he said at last, “that, aside from a few dead systems like Alpha Centauri, the Universe was full of life—and some of the races have had interstellar drives for so long that even the kids’ flyers are equipped with them.” He looked around at the boys.
“Go ahead,” said Wimpy impatiently.
“Don’t you get it?”
They all stared at him blankly.
“Well,” he continued, “suppose a bunch of kids were out one day and they went poking around where they had no business being and they found a big old ship that looked deserted.”
“The Glorious!”
“So, whenever they could get away, they’d sneak over and play invasion.”
“Oh, no!” said Wimpy.
“And then, one day, they decided to run a real all-out offensive, and one of the kids borrowed his father’s ship without bothering to ask permission. And right in the middle of the game, the turrets on the ship they thought was deserted suddenly swing around and they find a couple of dozen space-rifles pointed directly at them. They want to run away, but they’re too scared, and to make matters worse, they get a demonstration of a horrible strange weapon. And we thought we were scared!” There was silence in the control room for a moment as the Guardsmen tried to digest what had happened.
“But what about the torpedo?” asked Wimpy.
Bill patted the elaborate toy that hung at his right hip. “It had as much real punch as this. They were making believe that it was a vortex torpedo—they’d rigged it up with remote controls—but it was really only one of the little flyers that they turn out for the kids over there. It’s an old one, but its interstellar drive is still working.”
He paused, then said in an offhand manner, “I brought it back with me. It’s got an adjustable warp field that’ll open up wide enough to handle a ship the size of the Glorious, and I—well, it seemed to me that, maybe, it might get space travel going . . .” It did.
CONVENTIONAL ENDING
After all, why should Martians be interested in the doings of science fiction fans?
Scott Meredith Literary Agency,
580 Fifth Avenue,
New York 36, New York.
Dear Scott:
Poul Anderson, Gordon Dickson, and I were over at my place last night batting around story ideas when the subject of science fiction conventions came up. The conversation naturally went on to the high cost of liquor at same, and how we always ended up drinking beer when we were in the mood for Scotch. Then Gordy came up with a wonderful idea. Why, he said, don’t the three of us knock out a special convention story and earmark the proceeds for vintage firewater. I’d just been talking about the strange character who has the apartment upstairs, a chap by the name of Gergen who believes that if he can hook enough junk radios together in the proper fashion he’ll be able to talk to Mars—and starting with him we blocked out a nice story idea. We’re calling the yarn “Conventional Ending.” The gimmick is that a character like the one upstairs actually does make contact with Mars, and the Martians take over his mind. By a process of mental ingestion he takes over the three of us so that the aliens have an embryonic group-mind at their disposal. The final twist to the story is that the four of us go to the San Francisco science fiction convention, lure the big-name writers and editors up to our hotel room one by one, and absorb them into the Martian group mind. They in turn start inviting fans up. We haven’t as yet figured out why the Martians should want to take over fandom, but Poul is going to do the last third of the story and he’ll come up with some sort of a snapper. We’re figuring on doing the yarn as a letter-series, and it shouldn’t run over two thousand.
Here’s where you come in. Since the story has a definite time-place focus, it will have to be placed within the next few weeks if it’s going to hit the stands before the convention. The three of us are all pressed for time so we’d like a de
finite go-ahead signal from somebody before we turn it out. Will you check around and see if anybody is interested? Let us know on this as soon as you can.
salud,
Ted
Poul
Gordy
WESTERN UNION 1954 APR. 8 PM 0216 LOWNDES LIKES CONVENTIONAL ENDING ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS WORTH. WANTS IT FOR OCTOBER ISSUE OF FUTURE DUE TO HIT STAND ONE AUGUST. PROMISED HIM STORY IN TWO WEEKS LATEST. CAN DO?
SCOTT MEREDITH
WESTERN UNION 1954 APR. 9 AM 0917 FOR ONE HUNDRED WE WOULD GIVE HIM THE SEVENTH STAGE LENSMAN BY SATURDAY. CAN DO!
TED, POUL, GORDY
1954 APR. 28 PM 0400
WESTERN UNION
WHERE IS THAT STORY?
SCOTT MEREDITH
1954 APR. 29 AM 1127
WESTERN UNION
HAVING TROUBLE WITH POUL. LETTER FOLLOWS.
TED AND GORDY
29 April, 1954
Minneapolis, Minn.
Scott Meredith Literary Agency,
580 Fifth Avenue,
New York 36, New York.
Dear Scott:
Sorry for the delay on “Conventional Ending.” We’ve been waiting for Poul to come up with an ending before we turned out our thirds. He kept promising to get it done, but he was trying to finish that novel for Shasta and kept putting us off. We’d have finished the story ourselves, only we still haven’t been able to figure out why the Martians would want to take over fandom.
Last night we finally went over to Poul’s, dragged him out of his study and over to Ted’s, plunked him down in front of a typewriter with a stack of paper on one side and a half-a-dozen bottles of cold beer on the other, and told him that he wasn’t leaving until he’d written us out of the hole he’d gotten us into. He threshed and moaned and made a dozen false starts. Finally he came out shaking his head and saying he was completely stuck. So we all went to work on the ending, but we couldn’t accomplish any more collectively than he could by himself. Finally he had a flash. Look, he said, maybe if we all go upstairs and have a talk with this mad genius something will pop. Gergen never lets anybody in his apartment, but after a couple of more beers we decided to make a try.
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