Invaders of Earth

by Groff Conklin

  “Ridiculous? Perhaps. And perhaps it is no more so than the apparent impossibility of fifteen watts of energy pouring into the antenna of a radio station, and nothing coming down. The key to the whole problem is in the nature of those self-contained spheres of force inside the shell. Their power is apparently inherent, and consists of an ability to align, just as the useful property of steam is an ability to expand. If, as is suggested by Reinhardt in his ‘Usage of the Symbol β in the Forsythe Formulae’ these spheres are nothing but stable concentrations of pure binding energy, we have here a source of power beyond the wildest dreams of mankind. And whether or not we succeed in building such devices, it cannot be denied that whatever their mysterious source, the Forsythe Formulae are an epochal gift to several sciences, including, if you like, the art of philosophy.”

  ~ * ~

  After it was over, and the Formulae written, the terrible tension lifted. The three humans sat in their happy coma, and the dog lay senseless on the rug. Mrs. Forsythe was the first to move, standing up abruptly. “Well!” she said.

  It seemed to break a spell. Everything was quite normal. No hangovers, no sense of strangeness, no fear. They stood looking wonderingly at the mass of minute figures.

  “I don’t know,” murmured Alistair, and the phrase covered a world of meaning. Then, “Alec—that casting. We’ve got to get it done. We’ve just got to, no matter what it costs us!”

  “I’d like to,” said Alec. “Why do we have to?”

  She waved toward the drawing table. “We’ve been given that.”

  “You don’t say!” said Mrs. Forsythe. “And what is that?”

  Alistair put her hand to her head, and a strange, unfocused look came into her eyes. That look was the only part of the whole affair that ever really bothered Alec. It was a place she had gone to, a little bit; and he knew that no matter whatever happened, he would never be able to go there with her.

  She said, “He’s been… talking to me, you know. You do know that, don’t you? I’m not guessing, Alec—Mum.”

  “I believe you, chicken,” her mother said softly. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I got it in concepts. It isn’t a thing you can repeat, really. But the idea is that he couldn’t give us any thing. His ship is completely functional, and there isn’t anything he can exchange for what he wants us to do. But he has given us something of great value—” Her voice trailed off; she seemed to listen to something for a moment. “Of value in several ways. A new science, a new approach to attack the science. New tools, new mathematics.”

  “But what is it? What can it do? And how is it going to help us pay for the casting?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.

  “It can’t, immediately,” said Alistair decisively. “It’s too big. We don’t even know what it is. Why are you arguing? Can’t you understand that he can’t give us any gadgetry? That we haven’t his techniques, materials, and tools, and so we couldn’t make any actual machine he suggested? He’s done the only thing he can; he’s given us a new science, and tools to take it apart.”

  “That I know,” said Alec gravely. “Well indeed. I felt that. And I… I trust him. Do you, ma’m?”

  “Yes, of course. I think he’s—people. I think he has a sense of humor and a sense of justice,” said Mrs. Forsythe firmly. “Let’s get our heads together. We ought to be able to scrape it up some way. And why shouldn’t we? Haven’t we three got something to talk about for the rest of our lives?”

  And their heads went together.

  ~ * ~

  This is the letter that arrived two months later in St. Croix.

  Honey-lamb,

  Hold on to your seat. It’s all over. The casting arrived. I missed you more than ever, but when you have to go—and you know I’m glad you went! Anyway, I did as you indicated, through Tiny, before you left. The men who rented me the boat and ran it for me thought I was crazy, and said so. Do you know that once we were out on the river with the casting, and Tiny started whuffing and whimpering to tell me we were on the right spot, and I told the men to tip the casting over the side, they had the collosal nerve to insist on opening the crate? Got quite nasty about it. Didn’t want to be a party to any dirty work. It was against my principles, but I let them, just to expedite matters. They were certain there was a body in the box! When they saw what it was, I was going to bend my umbrelly over their silly heads, but they looked so funny! I couldn’t do a thing but roar with laughter. That was when the man said I was crazy.

  Anyhow, over the side it went, into the river. Made a lovely splash. And about a minute later, I got the loveliest feeling—I wish I could describe it to you. I was sort of overwhelmed by a feeling of utter satisfaction, and gratitude, and… oh, I don’t know. I just felt good, all over. I looked at Tiny, and he was trembling. I think he felt it, too. I’d call it a thank you, on a grand psychic scale. I think you can rest assured that Tiny’s monster got what it wanted.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. I paid off the boatmen, and started up the bank. Something made me stop, and wait, and then go back to the water’s edge.

  It was early evening, and very still. I was under some sort of a compulsion—not an unpleasant thing, but an unbreakable one. I sat down on the river wall and watched the water. There was no one around—the boat had left—except one of those snazzy Sunlounge cruisers anchored a few yards out. I remember how still it was, because there was a little girl playing on the deck of the yacht, and I could hear her footsteps as she ran about.

  Suddenly I noticed something in the water. I suppose I should have been frightened, but somehow I wasn’t at all. Whatever the thing was, it was big and gray and slimy and quite shapeless. And somehow, it seemed to be the source of this aura of well-being and protectiveness that I felt. It was staring at me. I knew it was before I saw that it had an eye—a big one, with something whirling inside of it… I don’t know. I wish I could write. I wish I had the power to tell you what it was like. I know that it was, by human standards, infinitely revolting. If this was Tiny’s monster, I could understand its being sensitive to the revulsion it might cause. And wrongly, for I felt to the core that the creature was good.

  It winked at me. I don’t mean blink. It winked. And then everything happened at once.

  The creature was gone, and in seconds there was a disturbance in the water by the yacht. Something gray and wet reached up out of the river and I saw it was going for that little girl. Only a tyke—about three, she was. Red hair just like yours. And it thumped that child in the small of the back just enough to knock her over—into the river.

  And can you believe it? I just sat there watching, and said never a word! It didn’t seem right to me that that baby could be struggling in the water. But it didn’t seem wrong either!

  Well, before I could get my wits together, Tiny was off the wall like a hairy bullet and streaking through the water. I have often wondered why his feet are so big; I never will again. The hound is build like the lower half of a paddle wheel! In two shakes he had the baby by the scruff of the neck and was bringing her back to me. No one had seen that child get pushed, Alistair! No one but me. But there was a man on the yacht who must have seen her fall. He was all over the deck roaring orders and getting in the way of things, and by the time he had his wherry in the water, Tiny had reached me with the little girl. She wasn’t frightened either—she thought it was a grand joke! Wonderful youngster.

  So the man came ashore, all gratitude and tears, and wanted to gold-plate Tiny or something. Then he saw me. “That your dog?” I said it was my daughter’s. She was in St. Croix on her honeymoon. Before I could stop him he had a checkbook out and was scratching away at it. He said he knew my kind. Said he knew I’d never accept a thing for myself, but wouldn’t refuse something for my daughter. I enclose the check. Why he picked a sum like thirteen thousand, I’ll never know. Anyhow, I know it’ll be a help to you. Since the money really comes from Tiny’s monster, I suppose I can confess that getting Alec to put up the money, even th
ough he would have to clean out his savings and mortgage his estate, would be a good idea if he were one of the family, because then he’d have you to help him make it all back again—that was all my idea. Sometimes, though, watching you, I wonder if I really had to work so all-fired hard to get you nice people married to each other.

  Well, I imagine that closes the business of Tiny’s monster. There are a lot of things we’ll probably never know. I can guess some things, though. It could communicate with a dog, but not with a human, unless it half-killed itself trying. Apparently a dog is telepathic with humans to a degree, though it probably doesn’t understand a lot of what it gets. I don’t speak French, but I could probably transcribe French phonetically well enough so a Frenchman could read it. Tiny was transcribing that way. The monster could “send” through him, and control him completely. It no doubt indoctrinated the dog—if I can use the term—the day old Debbil took him up the waterline. And when the monster caught, through Tiny, the mental picture of you when Dr. Schwellenbach mentioned you, it went to work through the dog to get you working on its problem. Mental pictures—that’s probably what the monster used. That’s how Tiny could tell one book from another, without being able to read. You visualize everything you think about. What do you think? I think that mine’s as good a guess as any.

  You might be amused to learn that last night all the compasses in this neighborhood pointed west for a couple of hours! Bye now, chillun. Keep on being happy.

  Love and love, and a kiss for Alec,

  Mum.

  P. S. - Is St. Croix really a nice place to honeymoon? Jack—he’s the fellow who signed the check—is getting very sentimental. He’s very like your father. A widower, and—Oh, I don’t know. Says fate, or something, brought us together. Said he hadn’t planned to take a trip upriver with the baby, but something drove him to it. He can’t imagine why he anchored just there. Seemed a good idea at the time. Maybe it was fate. He is very sweet. I wish I could forget that wink I saw in the water.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  Mack Reynolds

  THE DISCORD MAKERS

  There are Those Who Guide, as in William Temple’s “A Date to Remember” earlier in this book. And there are Those Who Take Over, as here. This theme, which is commonly known as the “we’re property” idea, is very frequently used in mass-produced science fiction, since it is easy to work up some unsubtle shudders over the notion of Things that secretly surmount us.

  “The Discord Makers” is included in this book as the only compleat exemplar of this theme—and a very effective one, because it is so uncomfortably circumstantial in its approach. Change a few names, and who can say for sure that this is not a situation that exists? It would certainly be an easy way to explain some of the insanities that beset the Earth.

  ~ * ~

  HARVEY TODD, Director of the Department of Security, initialed two papers, put them aside, and reached for another report. He didn’t bother to look up. “Wish you’d make this brief as possible, Ross. I’m up to my ears.”

  “Chief,” Ross Wooley said hesitantly, “suppose I wanted to investigate something on my own, follow up a hunch?”

  His superior shot a quizzical look at the undersized agent. “What d’ya have in mind?”

  “It’s something screwy,” the other answered. “Something that’ll sound like I’m around the corner.”

  Harvey Todd put down his pen and grinned at his best operative. “You must have a lulu this time, Ross, but your reputation’s good and your hunches’ve been so far. What is it?”

  Wooley scratched his chin with a thumbnail. “Chief,” he said slowly, not sure how his words would be received, “I’ve got reasons to suspect there might be aliens in the United States.”

  The Department of Security head scowled at him. “Of course there’re aliens here. What of it? That’s not our jurisdiction.”

  “I mean aliens from space, some other planet, maybe.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No, sir.”

  Harvey Todd stared at him for a long time without saying anything. Finally he muttered, “Let’s hear it.”

  “I’d like permission to investigate. If I can’t have it, I’d like leave of absence to probe around on my own. If I can’t have that, I’ll submit my resignation so that I’ll be free to look into this as a private citizen.” The little agent’s eyes blinked rapidly behind his shell-rimmed glasses.

  Todd glanced down at the pile of letters on his desk and sighed. He brushed them aside, reached into a drawer of his desk, and brought out a prehistoric brier and a can of tobacco. He didn’t speak again until the pipe was filled and lit and he was leaning back in his chair, puffing at it. Then he said, “This seems to mean quite a bit to you. What d’ya have?”

  The agent stirred uncomfortably. “Not enough to make sense, chief. An article here, a news item there, some quotations from obscure scientists; more hunch than anything else. What I’d like is enough time to make a preliminary investigation. If I get anything definite, I’ll report. Then it’s up to you.”

  Harvey Todd let smoke trickle through his nostrils and squinted worriedly through it. “Give me more than that, Ross. I can’t assign an agent to go around searching for characters out of Buck Rogers without having some idea what he’s working on.”

  “You said my reputation was good,” Wooley reminded him.

  Todd picked up his pen and doodled a series of cubes on a pad before him. “It’s bad for the department to be held up to ridicule, Ross. We’ve been under fire several times this past year. I can think of several congressmen who’d like to know we assign agents to tail men from Mars.”

  “Then you’d prefer my resignation?” The dynamic little agent’s voice was tight.

  His chief grunted disgustedly, then suddenly made up his mind. “No, damn it! Make your investigation. But, for heaven’s sake, keep it quiet. If it gets into the papers, I’ll have you counting your toes on Alcatraz before I’m through with you, Ross.”

  Ross Wooley grinned. “Thanks. Er . . . I’ll have to do some travel-ing.”

  “See Smith about it on your way out. Now beat it. I think you’re crazy.” Harvey Todd took up his pen and another stack of letters, sighed, and went back to work.

  A maid ushered him into the study. He gave the room a quick onceover and gained an impression of endless shelves of books, several comfortable chairs, good lighting, two well-conceived oils on the walls, a small portable bar. A scholar’s room but, at the same time, a man’s.

  Professor André Dumar looked up from his chair with a frown, then squinted at the card in his hand again. “Mr. Ross Wooley?”

  “That’s right.” The agent turned and looked at the maid. She left the room, closing the heavy door behind her.

  “Sit down, Mr. Wooley,” the professor said. “You don’t look the way Hollywood leads us to believe a Security agent does.”

  Ross Wooley didn’t smile. He’d heard the equivalent too often before. “My strong point as an operative, Professor.”

  Dumar said, “About thirty years ago, while I was still an undergraduate, I recall writing a paper for my anthropology class entitled ‘Primitive Communism among the Amerindians.’ Otherwise, I can’t think of anything in my life that would call for a visit from a Department of Security man.”

  Wooley grinned and selected a chair. “I came for information, Professor. You seem to be an authority on several obscure subjects; sort of an off-trail specialist.”

  “That sounds as though it needs amplification.”

  “You confine your research to subjects many men of science, fearing ridicule, deliberately avoid. Mental telepathy and clairvoyance, for instance; you were a pioneer in their early study.”

  The professor nodded. “Actually out of my line, but a fascinating investigation. Now the ice is broken, more capable specialists than I are doing yeoman work in ESP.”

  Ross Wooley ran his left hand nervously over his chin. “Before we go further, Pro
fessor, I’d like you to understand that no matter how strange the things I ask you, the department requests that you not discuss them, even with family members.”

  Professor Dumar scowled and studied Ross Wooley’s card again. “This says you’re a government agent. Prove it, please.”

  Wooley smiled. “A sensible precaution, sir.” He drew his wallet from his pocket and held it over for the other’s inspection.

  The professor went over the credentials carefully, then picked up the telephone and dialed the operator. “Give me the Department of Security, please. . . . Hello. This is Professor André Dumar. Here in my study is a man claiming to be Ross Wooley. Have you an agent of that name? . . . Thank you. Will you now describe him? Thank you very much. Good-by.”

  The professor returned the wallet and relaxed in his chair. “You seem to be what you claim. What are your questions?”