Invaders of Earth

by Groff Conklin

  Ross Wooley blinked rapidly behind his heavy glasses and nodded. “Yes, sir. And I believe that the most important thing in the world today is to expose these enemies of the human race; root them out, de—”

  Harvey Todd interrupted. “Suppose I tell you to drop it, that it’s a lot of nonsense?”

  “In that case, sir, I’d resign from the department and continue the investigation on my own.”

  The Department of Security head looked at him for a long moment. Finally, “O.K., Ross. Sorry.” He pressed a button on his desk and a section of the wall slid back silently. Two strangely clad figures stepped out of the passage behind it. They weren’t human—not exactly.

  The chief eyed his agent laconically. “You were right in believing we of Aldebaran—it’s Aldebaran, not Mars or Venus—have assumed positions of power in your fantastic Earth governments.”

  He turned to the first of the strangers, who had covered Wooley with an ugly weapon. “Dispose of him in the usual way.”

  Ross Wooley’s hand streaked for his left shoulder. A pale light gleamed momentarily; he dropped his gun, stiffened, and began to slump forward. The two aliens grabbed him as he fell and began to drag his body to the passageway.

  “Just a moment,” Harvey Todd called. “Take along this report. There’re several names on it that’ll call for a visit from us, a Professor Dumar and a Dr. Keith, in particular.”

  He glanced at the pile of papers on his desk and sighed. “Now get out of here. I’m up to my ears in work.”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  Milton Lesser

  PEN PAL

  And then there are those “alien invaders” who just come to gawk, to be listened to and admired. Their invasion is the least consequential of any of those imagined in this collection, and at the same time one of the most persuasive, perhaps because it is so silly-human in its motivation.

  ~ * ~

  THE best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was something of a paradox. She was thirty-three years old, certainly not aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent paths across her face, and now she needed certain remedial undergarments at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was also looking for a husband.

  This, in itself, was not unusual—but Matilda was so completely wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a Prince Charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and talk about it all to Matilda.

  The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she had been waiting for him.

  Matilda, you see, had patience.

  She also had a fetish. Matilda had received her A.B. from exclusive Ursula Johns College, and Radcliffe had yielded her Masters degree, yet Matilda was an avid follower of the pen-pal columns. She would read them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine names which, through a system known only to Matilda, had an affinity to her own. To the gentlemen to whom these names were affixed, Matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow Penshaws, that it was in this way she would find her husband. The widow Penshaws impatiently told her to go out and get dates.

  That particular night, Matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the garage and walked up the walk to the porch. The widow Penshaws was rocking on the glider, and Matilda said hello.

  The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda’s left hand in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger.

  “I thought so,” she said. “I knew this was coming when I saw that look in your eye at dinner. Where is Herman’s engagement ring?”

  Matilda smiled. “It wouldn’t have worked out, Ma. He was too darned stuffy. I gave him his ring and said thanks anyway, and he smiled politely and said he wished I had told him sooner because his fifteenth college reunion was this week end and he had already turned down the invitation.”

  The widow Penshaws nodded regretfully. “That was thoughtful of Herman to hide his feelings.”

  “Hogwash!” said her daughter. “He has no true feelings. He’s sorry that he had to miss his college reunion. That’s all he has to hide. A stuffy Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others.”

  “But, Matilda, that’s your fifth broken engagement in three years. It ain’t that you ain’t popular, but you just don’t want to cooperate. You don’t fall in love, Matilda—no one does. Love osmoses into you slowly, without your even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time.”

  Matilda admired her mother’s use of the word “osmosis,” but she found nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact of love. She said good night and went upstairs, climbed out of her light summer dress, and took a cold shower.

  She began to hum to herself. She had-not yet seen the pen-pal section of the current Literary Review, and because the subject matter of that magazine was somewhat high-brow and cosmopolitan, she could expect a gratifying selection of pen pals.

  She shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her bedroom. She dared not let the widow Penshaws know that she slept in the nude; the widow Penshaws would object to a girl’s sleeping in the nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away.

  Matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!). Then she propped up her pillows—two pillows partially stopped her postnasal drip—and took the latest issue of the Literary Review off the night table.

  She flipped through the pages and came to Personals. Someone in Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a Midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and—

  Matilda read the next one twice. Then she held it close to the light and read it again. The Literary Review was one of the few magazines that printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and Matilda even liked the sound of the name. But mostly, she had to admit to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be it. Or, that is, him.

  Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who’s really been around, whose universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a lot to say and wants to say it. All others need not apply. Wonderful opportunity cultural experience . . . Haron Gorka, Cedar Falls, 111.

  The man was egotistical, all right; Matilda could see that. But she had never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something about which he had a genuine reason to be egoistical. The man sounded as though he would have reason indeed. He wanted only the best because he was the best. Like calls to like.

  The name—Haron Gorka: it’s oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda. Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had no nationality, for all intents and purposes; he was an international man, a figure among figures, a paragon. . . .

  Matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. The moon shone in through the window brightly, and at such times Matilda generally would get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. But this time it did not disturb her, and she would let it shine. Cedar Falls was a small town not fifty miles from her home, and she’d get there a hop,
skip, and jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of writing a letter.

  Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Dressed properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to Cedar Falls.

  Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom, dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and figure-molding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger, and tiptoed downstairs.

  The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stair well.

  “Mother,” gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something unexpected. “What on earth are you doing up?”

  The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. “I’m fixing breakfast, of course. . . .”

  Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak about the house without her mother’s knowing about it, and that even if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with, such as only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.

  Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour, Matilda hummed Mendelssohn’s Wedding March all the way. It was her favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar Falls and find out.

  And so she got there.

  The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses that hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.

  “Hello,” said Matilda.

  The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.

  “What?”

  “I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?”

  “Is that in the United States?”

  “It’s not a that; it’s a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live? What’s the quickest way to get there?”

  The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. “Now take it easy, ma’am. First place, I don’t know any Haron Gorka—”

  Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an oh under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda, almost happily, that he was sorry he couldn’t help her. He grudgingly suggested that if it really was important, she might check with the police.

  Matilda did, only they didn’t know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned out that no one did. Matilda tried the general store, the fire department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at random. As far as the gentry of Cedar Falls were concerned, Haron Gorka did not exist.

  Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she knew that she’d rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked to analyze other people’s mistakes, especially Matilda’s.

  Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls’ small and unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by browsing through the dusty stacks.

  This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the old librarian as she passed.

  Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray hair, suspicious eyes, and a broomstick figure. . . .

  On the other hand—why not? Why couldn’t the librarian help her? Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well educated as Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent residence here in Cedar Falls, one couldn’t expect that he’d have his own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.

  Matilda cleared her throat. “Pardon me,” she began, “I’m looking for-”

  “Haron Gorka.” The librarian nodded.

  “How on earth did you know?”

  “That’s easy. You’re the sixth young woman who came here inquiring about that man today. Six of you—five others in the morning, and now you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka. . . .”

  Matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear. “You know him? You know Haron Gorka?”

  “Certainly. Of course I know him. He’s our steadiest reader here at the library. Not a week goes by that he doesn’t take out three, four books. Scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. If I were twenty years younger—”

  Matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. “Only ten,” she assured the librarian. “Ten years would be more than sufficient, I’m sure.”

  “Are you? Well. Well, well.” The librarian did something with the back of her hair, but it looked just as it had before. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re right, at that.” Then she sighed. “But I guess a miss is as good as a mile.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka . . .”

  The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if five women had been here first, Matilda was now definitely in a hurry.

  “Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?”

  “I’m not supposed to do this, you know. We’re not permitted to give the addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear.”

  “What about the other five women?”

  “They convinced me that I ought to give them his address.”

  Matilda reached into her pocketbook and withdrew a five-dollar bill. “Was this the way?” she demanded. Matilda was not very good at this sort of thing.

  The librarian shook her head.

  Matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her hand. “Then is this better?”

  “That’s worse. I wouldn’t take your money—”

  “Sorry. What, then?”

  “If I can’t enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me faithfully, and you’ll get his address. That’s what the other five will do, and with half a dozen of you, I’ll get an over-all picture. Each one of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture considerably. But with six of you reporting, I should receive my share of vicarious enjoyment. Is it—ah—a deal?”

  Matilda assured her that it was and, breathlessly, wrote down the address. She thanked the librarian and then went out to her car, whistling to herself.

  Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except that the land no longer was being tilled. The house itself had fallen to ruin. This surprised Matilda, but she did not let it keep her spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the librarian’s account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to his dwelling. That was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Ma
tilda liked him all the more for it.

  There were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now Matilda’s made the sixth. In spite of herself, she smiled. She had not been the only one with the idea of visiting Haron Gorka in person. With half a dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought had been her ingenuity and which now turned out to be something that she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps she wouldn’t be needed; perhaps she was too late. . . .

  ~ * ~

  As it turned out, she wasn’t. Not only that, she was welcomed with open arms. Not by Haron Gorka; that she really might have liked. Instead, someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked if she had come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly. He told her that was fine and ushered her straight into a room that evidently was to be her living quarters. It contained a small, undersized bed, a table, and a chair, and, near a little slot in the wall, there was a button.