Planet America s-2

by Mack Maloney

  When the elevator finally stopped, they stepped out into a large chamber. It had a very low ceiling but was expansive, with strings of blue lights running everywhere. One wall was dominated by a visual screen. At the moment, it was filled with nothing more than rows of ever-changing numbers.

  There was a narrow oval table in the center of the room. Seven men were sitting along one side of it. They were all rather elderly for this planet. Each man wore longish gray hair, and several had long, gray beards as well. Their faces were wrinkled unlike any Hunter had seen since coming to this world. The seven men were all dressed casually, mostly in denim, and each was wearing a large red ID badge attached to a chain around his neck.

  There were only three letters visible on these badges: CIA.

  These men weren't brimming with antagonism as the FBI agents had been.

  They politely asked the spacemen to sit down, and coffee was passed their way. Tomm slurped down two cups before anyone else could be served. Zarex silently accepted a cigarette; he was soon lit up and puffing away. Hunter was half hoping someone would turn up with a bottle of Seagram's.

  There were no formal introductions. They were a top-secret government intelligence group, the man sitting in the center chair told them, and he was their spokesman. He looked slightly younger than the others, was clean-shaven, his skin red and robust, a wry look around his eyes. His name was Gordon.

  "Unlike our dull-witted cousins over at FBI," he began, "we know who you boys are. We know you're not from this planet. We know you landed here about a week ago. We know you split up shortly after arrival. We know you all spent time in various parts of the country."

  The three spacemen were surprised by this news but didn't say a word. This was their third trip to an interrogation room in less than a week. They knew by now that it was best to keep their mouths shut.

  "And how do we know all this about you?" the CIA man asked.

  He pulled a sheaf of papers from a folder. They were newspaper clips. He held one up. It was from the Newark Ledger. Its headline read, "Mystery Man Arrested for Diner Assault— Defendant Said to Possess 'Strange Powers.' " He flipped to another. It was from the Washington Post. It read, " 'Priest' Said to Be Performing Miracles Outside National Cathedral."

  Then he held up the entire front page of a third newspaper, the Chicago Tribune. In huge black letters, the headline read, "UFO Spotted Over Mayfield." A story below was headlined, "Chicago, Erie, New York Also Report Saucers."

  Gordon leaned back in his seat. "Now, gentlemen, if your mission here was to quietly infiltrate us, I have to tell you, you failed miserably. I mean, you did all right getting out of Beta-ville. But after that, well…"

  He returned the newsclips to his case. The three spacemen sank lower into their seats.

  "It's OK, though," Gordon continued. "It actually worked out better this way. Once we got a whiff of what happened in Be-taville, we knew we had to find you. We thought it would take weeks, months, years. But you broke so many laws and made so much of a racket, we were able to apprehend you all rather quickly."

  Hunter was just staring at his thumbs now. By splitting up, he, Tomm, and Zarex had thought it would be easier moving around the tiny planet, as they wouldn't attract as much attention.

  Obviously, they should have considered a Plan B.

  The CIA man went on, "I mean, auto theft? Assault and battery? Demonstrating without a permit? Suspicion of murder? That's not exactly leaving a cold trail, is it?"

  The man seated next to Gordon passed him a scribbled note.

  "Right — and let's not forget the missing two seconds," Gordon said. "Several days ago, two, near-simultaneous blackouts occurred across our national power grid. They seemed to be just glitches at first, and backup systems tripped in, so for the most part, the average citizen did not notice anything had gone wrong.

  "But then we began getting reports that during these two events, other things besides the power flow had been affected. Our atomic clocks lost time. Some broadcast systems went down. To make a long story short, everything on this planet just… well, stopped for those two seconds last Saturday night. To be precise, one event around 8:32, the next just two minutes later, at 8:34 or so. We assume you three were somehow responsible for this, too?"

  Zarex shrugged; so did Tomm. This was none of their doing. They looked over at Hunter. He was staring at the floor. Those were the exact times of his flights with Reggie and then Ashley. There had to be a connection. But why would operating his flying machine disrupt things on this planet? He didn't have a clue.

  "Any thoughts on any of this, gentlemen?" Gordon asked them.

  The spacemen remained mute.

  "All right then," the CIA man said. "I understand your reluctance to talk. But let me tell you this: We have no intention of cutting you up just to see what makes you tick. As those dopes at the FBI might be inclined to do. We have no intention to examine you in any way. The truth is, we've been expecting you. And the fact that we can understand each other and converse seems to indicate a connection here. Now, of course, we have many questions we'd like to ask. And I'm sure there is much you can tell us."

  The three spacemen looked at each other in glum agreement. There was no doubt about that.

  "But we don't even have to get into those areas, either," Gordon said. "In fact, all we would like to know is the answer to one primary question, something that might solidify that we are all on the same page."

  Still, they would not say a word. Gordon took off his glasses.

  "Look, you've obviously come from a great distance away," he said. "And there must be some reason you landed here."

  The three visitors stirred, but just a little.

  "We may even be working toward the same goal," Gordon told them. "Maybe looking for the answer to the same question."

  Hunter finally broke the silence.

  "What question might that be?" he asked.

  Ten minutes later, the seven CIA officers, the three spacemen, and a squad of armed guards had arrived in yet another chamber, this one even deeper inside the mountain.

  This chamber served to house a huge vault. Its oval door was enormous and thick. The vault itself was built into solid rock, with blast protectors all around and huge springs beneath its floor to cushion any unlikely blow. More than a dozen soldiers were guarding the door. Even though the seven CIA men were obviously high up on the security chain, they still had to show their IDs and do voice, fingerprint, and retina scans in order to make it past the rock-jawed, unsmiling guards.

  The interior of the vault was nearly as big as the agents' blue-lit conference room upstairs. A narrow, soundproof door closed behind them once they'd entered; the interior of the vault became very dim. Subdued lighting along its ceiling gave everything a greenish glow. Suddenly, the vault looked like the inside of a church.

  One wall was made up of about three dozen small doors. Each was made of highly polished brass; each had a number engraved on it.

  Gordon finally spoke.

  "This is a matter of such grave importance to us," he began, "that we have no choice but to be open with you. That said, you must be aware that what I am about to tell you is the most closely guarded secret on this planet. It is a secret that is known only by the people inside this room. The secret is actually hundreds if not thousands of years old and has been passed down, from generation to generation, by organizations like us — along with the artifacts kept in this room, which support it.

  "Some of the secret's caretakers over the centuries have been religious sects. Others were governmental agencies such as us. The secret has passed through the hands of writers, poets, mystics. But whenever it is passed on, usually from dying lips, it is always with the vow that it be held between no more than a dozen people at any one time. Indeed it must be kept from the public at all costs, at least until all of its aspects can be confirmed and the population is made ready to absorb it. We seven are this generations' 'enlightened ones,' you might say. Like those
before us, we are not only the secret's keepers, we must also attempt to interpret it. Verify it. Understand just exactly what it means. In fact, this is just about all we do. The burden of the secret's proof rests with us."

  Gordon paused and took a deep breath.

  "The secret is this: We have evidence that we, the people of this planet, really don't belong here. That sometime back in our history, our ancestors were brought to this world from somewhere else."

  He let these words hang in the air for a moment.

  "We have uncovered a number of clues," he went on. "Some of them suggest a massive migration of sorts, somewhere in our distant past. The clues to all this are contained in this vault. Most of the evidence was found hidden away in the deepest mountains on this planet, at the bottom of mine shafts or in natural caverns miles under the ground. Some items were found inside rock itself. All of them are so deteriorated, even our best carbon dating cannot establish a firm time frame. We estimate that most are at least three thousand years old. Some possibly as old as five thousand years. But that is not the most intriguing thing about this evidence."

  Gordon stopped, looked at the space travelers for a moment, and then said, "The intriguing thing is that we've determined most of the objects in this room are not of this world. They originated someplace else."

  He opened one of the doors and rolled out a long drawer. It held a solid glass case. Within were several dozen collections of individual pages carefully bound together in spines. All were so old, they were in the last stages of disintegration.

  "You are familiar with the concept of books?" Gordon asked the spacemen.

  They nodded as one. "More or less," Tomm mumbled. "They are ancient things; we know that."

  "Well, these before you are of an educational sort," Gordon said. "It is very difficult to handle them, as you can see, and we can't make out very many of the words or understand those words that we can see. But some of the photographs are still intact, and by interpreting bits and pieces from them, we found that they depict an existence similar to the one we live here, yet one that obviously took place somewhere else, thousands of years ago. Several of these books talk about culture. Others contain maps. Still others have broad texts on geography. They show a world like ours, yet very different."

  He picked up one of the books. It looked like it was about to turn to dust.

  "We've been able to do analysis on the molecular structures in these materials," Gordon said. "Pages, covers, the ink, and so on. We have concluded, without a doubt, that they are not like anything found on this planet. In fact, in many cases, they are exact opposites in atomic composition. They look the same, act the same, do the same things, but they are not the same. I'm not sure if you are familiar with the concept of left-handed sugar, but if you are, imagine such a thing, just on a much larger scale. We can show you the data if you want, but for now, take our word for it: Most of this stuff didn't originate on this planet."

  He lowered his voice a bit.

  "Now there is another thing I should tell you: The extent of our own recorded history goes back just two hundred forty-seven years. That's it. No one is sure what happened before that. But it seems that some kind of disaster befell this planet back then and completely wiped out everything. And I emphasize the word completely. Nothing from that part of our history has ever been found. Not a scrap. Can you see the irony, gentlemen? We have in our possession artifacts that are thousands of years old, yet we have none from as recently as three hundred years ago. Whatever hit our planet, hit hard. Whatever few survivors there were, we are their children. Our civilization bounced right back, relatively speaking, but there are many years that are simply blank. What's more, we have found geological evidence that indicates this planet suffered similar catastrophes down through the ages. Near-total extinction events that leave absolutely nothing behind, unless its been hidden well underground."

  He swept his hand around him. "So you can see, for us, the ancient things in this room — and the mysteries they hold — are even more puzzling.

  He pointed to one large volume. "More evidence: This we call the Book of the Dead. It is an ancient collection of names; possibly of people who were shipped here and died soon afterward. There are hundreds of these names, but here's the rub: Many are the same surnames we use here today."

  He indicated another volume. It was so old it smelled like dirt.

  "This book seems to show us how this long-ago government was run. How the political structure worked. How the people came to rule. Coincidentally — or not — it is just about the same form of government we have now."

  Another ancient book. Its cover had long ago faded away.

  "This is apparently a recounting of a love story between adolescents. Or a silly interpretation of one." Another book, dirty and slim. "This might contain ancient recipes for beer, vodka, whiskey." Another blackened book. "This tells the reader how to grow things, like tobacco, wheat, and coffee beans."

  Gordon returned the books to their case.

  "Careful interpretation of these volumes, as well as other things, is what led us to our conclusion. They are about us, yet again, they are not about us. They didn't originate here, so neither did we. And not only are their materials unlike anything manufactured here, we can't seem to duplicate them, either. We've tried. Yet the pictures within seem to speak of a life that is very familiar to us. Things like bustling cities, vast agriculture, financial dealings, art, music, sports — our culture itself. But it's all from somewhere else. We believe these things were hidden thousands of years ago in hopes they would survive the periodic catastrophes, be found, and interpreted. But either by design or fate, these books bring up more questions than they answer. The deciphering process has been going on for more than two centuries. It continues, very slowly, to this day."

  Hunter, Tomm, and Zarex were fascinated by all this, but only to a point. Certainly it was a big deal for a civilization that was so backward it didn't even know about flight to discover that thousands of years before, they'd been moved from one planet to another. But for the three spacemen, such a thing was ho-hum. Throughout the Galaxy, populations had been evacuated from planets before, such as when a collision was imminent between two star systems or clusters, or if a planet's puff had run out. Then there were the nefarious types who conquered worlds and delivered their inhabitants into slavery. Where the three of them had come from, while unusual, moving one people from here to there was certainly not unheard of.

  So Hunter asked himself, What does this have to do with me?

  It was almost as if Gordon had heard him. "Obviously, you are from a more advanced situation than us," Gordon said. "And the truth is, before you three came, we weren't even sure if there were any other planets out there in the entire universe. Never mind people. But we do have a connection. And I think once you see what we mean, you'll agree with us."

  He then unlocked the next door and rolled out a drawer.

  It contained another glass case, but inside this one was a piece of tattered cloth about five feet long and three feet wide. It consisted of just three colors: red, white, and blue. Hunter nearly fell over. He recognized this thing right away. It was a flag: red, white, and blue, the same design as the one he always carried in his pocket.

  "Is there any chance that this looks familiar to you?" Gordon asked.

  Hunter took his flag out and compared it to the frayed banner inside the glass case.

  It was a perfect match.

  Stunned silence in the chamber now. Tomm and Zarex were just as baffled as he. Where the flag in the glass case was barely more than bits and pieces of cloth, Hunter's flag was intact, almost brand-new by comparison.

  Gordon looked at Hunter. "May I ask where you got that flag?"

  It was a good question. Hunter had found the flag neatly folded in his left-hand pocket the day he suddenly woke up on the desolate planet of Fools 6. The flag and his name tag, which identified him as Hunter, Hawk, were the only two real clues he had about hi
s true identity. But he rarely told anyone about the origin of the flag; even Tomm and Zarex had no idea how he'd come by it. And he wasn't about to tell Gordon — at least not right now.

  So he replied to Gordon, "If I ever find out, you will be among the first to know, I promise."

  Gordon thought about that a moment and smiled. "I hope to hold you to that," he said.

  Then he pulled out another drawer. It held another glass case, and inside were two dozen more red, white, and blue flags. Several were as small as the one Hunter carried in his pocket. Others were larger, but not by much. Some were as tattered as the one they'd been shown first; others were in the last stages of decay. They all appeared to be thousands of years old.

  Hunter just couldn't believe what he was seeing. He'd only encountered the red, white, and blue emblem once before on the mysterious spacecraft found beneath the ice on Mars. Before that, he'd thought the flag he kept in his pocket was the only one of its kind in the universe. To see so many now, right in front of his eyes, was a shock.

  "You found these?" Hunter asked Gordon in astonishment. "Hidden below the ground?"

  "We did," Gordon replied. "And the fact that you are carrying one in such good shape… and the fact that you are, well, not from here. I… well, I guess I really don't know what it all means."

  Hunter was unable to take his eyes off the tattered flags.

  "Neither do I," he replied.

  "Notice this one," Gordon said pointing to a flag that seemed to be made of polymers rather than cloth. It had been stamped with the strange design of a circle with a line passing through it. Several other remnants were scarred with similar markings.

  "We believe that symbol indicates the object was forbidden or banned at one time," Gordon explained.

  Hunter spoke up. "But clearly this is the flag of this… other place. Why would it be banned?"

  "Just one of many things we don't know," Gordon replied. "But this, and the Book of the Dead, seems to indicate that our forefathers came here not by their own decision."