by Paul G White
Makeman was sympathetic. “I hope she’s not the mole, Mike, but we’ll have to set something up to prove it one way one way or the other.”
With a heavy heart, Carter agreed. He had wondered if he might form an attachment with Margaret Blythe and until they uncovered incontrovertible proof, he intended to cling to the hope that their suspicions would prove unfounded.
*
The delicate problem had Hendriksson worried. “Any suggestions on what information we should disclose?”
Carter regarded the director. “I’ve been giving this some thought, Lars. It should be something that we intend to release sooner, rather than later. We’ll only buy trouble if we fabricate information, because we can be pretty certain that if Margaret is the mole, it will be in the media by tomorrow. Anything we say will have to be verifiable; otherwise the project may lose a little credibility.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” Hal Kleineman agreed. “For me, there’s only one candidate: the time of awakening the first of the Sha’lee. At this point, I’m not aware if it has been decided when that will take place – at least word hasn’t filtered through to me yet. If you sought Margaret’s opinion as an exobiologist before whatever day has been decided to begin the procedure, you should know either way pretty quickly.”
Phil Makeman felt compelled to make his own contribution. As usual, it was abrasive. “We don’t have to go through all this play acting,” he grated. “We should just ask her outright. I’m sure Major Heathcote knows how to interrogate suspected terrorists.”
Carter was outraged. “Steady on, Phil. No one’s accusing Margaret of being a terrorist. All we’re saying is that someone, possibly Margaret, is passing information to the media and potentially also to Craithie. That wouldn’t make her a terrorist.”
“It wouldn’t,” Makeman conceded, “but I can’t see why we don’t just use the direct approach and ask her. I can’t imagine that she’ll be used to lying, can you? My bet is that she’d admit it if she was the mole.”
“And if she didn’t?”
“There’s always Plan B to fall back on. But y’know, to me, the type of sting we’re contemplating here seems more than a little disrespectful – especially if she’s proven to be innocent. If we lay our reasons for suspecting her on the table, it’ll give her the opportunity to accept or deny everything.”
Makeman added for good measure, “The colonel and the Major should be able to arrange any security necessary to take care of infiltrators of the site on the ground. But the ranting that our friend Craithie has been doing makes me wonder what he would do if he ever had the means of acquiring something a damned sight more destructive than ground weapons.”
Minister Hernandez’ swarthy skin paled. “Are you suggesting there may be a potential for him to employ weapons of mass destruction? Mr Makeman, you have the damnedest imagination.”
Makeman grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Minister. But really, I’m just trying to imagine what a madman like Craithie would do if he had access to a large amount of money. And from what I’ve heard, he has been raking in millions in donations at his rallies all over Europe and North America.”
The geophysics expert was now in full flow. “It’s just occurred to me that we ought to talk to Hela about the security situation?”
Hendriksson found himself asking, “Why would we do that?”
“I’m not a military man, right? But look down there.” He gestured towards the upper surface of the spaceship in the vast basin below them. “You can see that the Comora is at the middle of a depression with a seriously foreshortened horizon, which probably means that her instruments will have very little time to detect anything coming in at low level. The helicopters were pretty close and hovering; but anything with a rocket behind it is likely to be moving pretty quickly.” He paused for a moment to make a swift calculation. “I could survey it to be absolutely sure, but I reckon that approaching at thirty metres above ground, any missile would be visible to the Comora about a kilometre away – about three seconds at high subsonic speed, a lot less if it’s going faster. In my opinion, we need to ask Hela if she has any means of extending the range of her detection capabilities.”
Carter was open mouthed. “Your mind works in the damnedest way, Phil,” he finally managed to say. How long have you been brewing all this up?”
Makeman grinned. “A few minutes. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
“You’re not even a pretty face,” Carter grunted, “but I’ve learned to trust your maths skills. In this case, though, you wouldn’t mind a second opinion?”
“Feel free,” Makeman said airily, “I’m sure Hal will oblige.”
Hal Kleineman was already scribbling on his notepad. After a couple of minutes he whistled. “Not bad, Phil, for off the top of your head,” he said. “You know, if you ever get tired of imaging underground archaeology, I’d welcome you on my team.”
“Does this mean I should negotiate a pay rise?” Makeman asked no one in particular, a comment which Carter and Hendriksson pointedly ignored.
*
Inside the lowest level of the Comora, dwarfed by the three lifts, Hendriksson, Carter, Makeman, Kleineman and Minister Hernandez appraised Hela, the AI of their fears.
“What we were wondering,” Makeman explained, “is if the Comora has any remote sensing equipment.”
“Define ‘remote sensing equipment’.”
“Some kind of instrument that can hover high above the Comora and detect danger all around at great distance from the ship.”
“Then the answer is yes. The Comora has a number of instruments, which are designed to fulfil such a purpose. One can be fixed into position high above the Comora by means of a gravity lock, which will extend the range of my sensors by several hundreds of your kilometres. Would that help to allay your fears of a missile attack?”
“It would work for me,” Makeman agreed, and everyone nodded.
“I take it from your gestures that you are all in agreement?”
Everyone answered, “Yes.”
“Then it is done.” The huge central box lift sighed open and a metalloid drum, some forty centimetres tall and sixty centimetres in diameter floated out. As it passed close by with no apparent means of propulsion, everyone’s hair waved momentarily and settled back into place. The drum floated down the ramp at a constant relative elevation of two metres until it reached the outer edge of the spaceship, and then soared vertically. Seconds later, Hela announced, “The detection instrument is now locked into position and will remain so until Captain Lessil issues orders for it to be returned to stores.”
Kleineman gave his customary whistle. “Just think of it. That machine has been dormant for sixty-five million years and it’s ready to be deployed in seconds. What levels of technical ability are we talking about when machinery can be made so reliable?”
The AI thought Hal’s question had been addressed to her. “Technical ability made possible by several thousand years of peaceful progress. My comrades, the Sha’lee, have been at peace for millennia and have travelled space for most of that time. When your human race finally turns its back on conflict forever, you will probably discover that even greater achievements are not beyond your capabilities.”
“That’ll be the day,” was all that Kleineman could say.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Following a succession of rallies over the preceding months throughout the Mid-West of the United States, Craithie had accumulated in excess of twenty million dollars in his rapidly growing funds. He was on a roll and felt nothing could stop him. His campaign was growing in intensity and his message was being spread – albeit unwillingly in many instances – all over the world by the international media. As far as John Craithie was concerned, it mattered little whether the media were for or against his campaign, their reports offered free publicity.
His campaign machine had almost taken over the city of Cranesville in the state of Kansas, and he was set for the bigges
t rally yet. An area of open plain to the north of Cranesville had been hired for the rally and a massive stage had been built ready for his major speech to a vast crowd of followers. Many fringe groups, both religious and secular, had latched onto his message, and a number were using his campaign for their own purposes alongside Craithie’s as a means of recruiting others to their own particular causes.
In the centre of the stage was a broad dais, which would raise Craithie higher still so that he could be seen by everyone within the vast throng as he addressed them. People were already flocking to the site in anticipation of hearing him. He had used local radio and advertising agencies over a wide area of the Mid-West to promote his message along with the date of the rally.
It was 10.30 on the Saturday of the rally. More than a hundred thousand were present, eager to hear Craithie’s words. Craithie stepped up onto the dais and lifted his arms high in the air. He slowly looked around in every direction, surveying the vast gathering. The crowd burst into a deafening round of cheering and yelling at the supreme leader of the campaign to erase the aliens from the face of the Earth. Craithie could imagine that this must have been what it was like during Adolf Hitler’s rapid rise to power. He almost felt like a new Führer as he sensed the emotional power he was generating amongst his followers.
Mobile units from many TV stations had been positioned so they could record the reactions of the vast assembly whilst simultaneously sharing the best view of the stage. Craithie lowered his arms and the crowd fell silent. Powerful speakers, strategically placed around the crowd, would ensure that everyone could hear every word of his speech.
“My friends and followers of this worthy campaign against those children of the Devil, who have invaded our world, we are now in full spate to halt this evil in its tracks and destroy it by whatever means we find necessary. These spawn of Satan will, if we do nothing, destroy our many ancient faiths and cause this world to descend into the eternal darkness of an evil no one should ever have to contemplate. We must do everything within our power to eliminate this menace, no matter what measures we must employ. I am in the process of building an army of right-minded people like your good selves, to invade the site of these devils and destroy it once and for all. Are you with me?”
The crowd erupted. The clamour was deafening as people cheered and shouted his praises, proclaiming their belief in Craithie and his intention to destroy the spaceship. The ‘prophet’ addressed his audience for more than an hour, playing upon their fears of the unknown with a potent brew of xenophobia and rabble rousing, wrapped in a cloak of pseudo-religious misquotes and exhortations. He was on fire, and he exuded an aura of invincibility.
Craithie continued, “Our plans are well advanced, and soon we shall be able to move and attack these aliens and those who are welcoming them into our world. But we still need your financial support; will you open your wallets as you have opened your hearts for our crusade?”
Again the crowd screamed their approval, and howls of destroy the devils rang out over the open prairie. Craithie stood for a while, looking around him at all the adoring faces. He smiled and waved encouragingly, making the two-fingered victory sign that Winston Churchill had so often employed in the Second World War.
He spoke again, “I have organised donation trucks to come amongst you so you can put your money in. If you remain where you are they will pass near to you. Please give generously to enable me destroy this evil from the stars.”
Once again the crowd screamed their approval.
From behind the large stage a convoy of pick-up trucks, each carrying a large, horizontal metal cylinder with wide slots in its sides for people to put their money in, nosed slowly into the crowd. The trucks crawled through the vast throng until everyone had been given an opportunity to donate. Craithie stood and watched as the people hurried to place their money in the slots, aware that millions of dollars were being pumped into the collection trucks to swell the coffers of his crusade. Occasionally, he lifted up his hands and exhorted everyone to give everything they could so that Satan’s children could be destroyed and the world prevented from sliding into darkness and ruin.
On every occasion the crowd howled their acclamation.
Eventually, the trucks made their way back to the rear of the stand, and from the fervour of the crowd, Craithie suspected that they would contain in excess of two million dollars for the cause. Let the evil in the Yucatán beware!
At the top of his voice Craithie shouted to the crowd, “I thank all you faithful followers from the depths of my soul. We will be victorious in our campaign to destroy these children of the Devil, and soon they will be no more. And you will be encouraged by the knowledge that those who have welcomed them to live in our world will suffer the same fate.”
Once more the crowd erupted into cheers of adulation for the man they claimed as the glorious leader, who would rid the world of the evil that threatened to sweep away all religious faith and open it up to non-believers and alien devils.
Craithie walked down the steps of the dais and sat down on a chair at the back of the stage. He needed to calm himself down and quell the euphoria he felt within. He was almost tempted to believe he was akin to God on Earth, but he fought against such thoughts that assailed him. At this stage, when his goal was almost close enough to touch, he must not succumb to the sins of arrogance and egotism. He was soon to have a TV interview that would place him in the homes of countless millions of people. This would be the culmination of his campaign to raise an army of committed followers and it would provide an opportunity to show everyone that he was certain in his chosen path, but never arrogant.
Slowly the crowd dispersed and headed homeward, feeling that they had all contributed positively to the cause. The destruction of the spaceship was now only a matter of time.
*
In one of the television units, Internal Revenue Service agent, Matt Cregan, slid recordings from two special cameras into his briefcase, one of which was a record of every word spoken by John Craithie, the other extreme close-ups of one of the collection trucks as money was slid into the slots in its flanks. Now Agent Cregan’s task would be to estimate the total amount donated at the rally. Statistical analysis was second nature to the agent, and it should prove a simple task to input the data and reach an informed conclusion that would be fairly close to the exact total value of the donations.
Cregan loved his job, and his credo had always been ‘Everyone must pay their dues’. No one was exempt, especially non-US residents exhorting law-abiding citizens to go to war. The agent whistled tunelessly as he slid into his car and headed for IRS headquarters, buoyed by the prospect of several days of enjoyable work ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Three days after the Cranesville Rally the lights came up and the theme music of the Izzy Longman chat show filled the small TV auditorium. In one easy chair sat the eponymous host, whose irreverent yet incisive interview style had so endeared him to the viewing public that the show had topped the nationwide viewing figures for the previous two years, and was heading for a comfortable chart-topping position for a third consecutive year. In the eyes of the ‘suits’ Izzy could do no wrong; but they had raised their eyebrows at tonight’s guest – none other than the infamous John Craithie, whose hatred and denunciation of everything alien bordered on the psychotic.
Craithie sat comfortably in a second easy chair, a slight smile evident on his normally severe features. He was immaculate in a black suit and white shirt, with no hint of casualness about him. Craithie reasoned that if everyone saw how meticulously he presented himself, they would be more likely to accept his views. He knew that tonight, before a country-wide television audience, he was in a situation utterly different from facing a hundred thousand committed followers. The audience in the TV theatre was barely two hundred, but through the medium of the cameras he faced many millions – many of whom would prove antipathetic to his views. But, Craithie suspected, the broadcast would reach into the homes of a
great many more who were eager to be convinced of the rightness of his crusade. Tonight would be the acid test.
The music faded and the host opened his show by introducing his guest. “To many of you good people, my guest may not yet be a household name. But,” he continued, “it must be conceded that John Craithie has a way with words not seen since the days of the fire and brimstone preacher men of the past.” A small section of the audience whooped and cheered loudly.
Craithie’s smile broadened a little at the description and the reaction of his supporters. But the smile was restricted to his mouth and failed to soften the hard gleam in his eyes.
Longman slipped a piece of paper from his pocket, and inclined his head towards his guest. “If I may read a short extract from your recent speech in Cranesville, Kansas?”
Craithie waved his hand in approval; this, he thought, should be good. He felt the Cranesville speech had been his best yet.
Longman resumed almost without pause, so quickly that Craithie suspected the host had not really sought his permission at all. The smile which had been fixed upon his lips since the beginning of the show tightened a little.
Longman smiled broadly at the camera and read, “I quote, ‘The Devil’s spawn are here amongst us. If we permit this abomination in God’s eyes to continue to exist here on Earth, we shall have signed the very existence of the human race over to Satan.’ The Cranesville speech, much like the speech in Paris, France some weeks ago, was punctuated by more of the same. Now John – may I call you John?”
Craithie nodded, “I have no objection . . . Izzy.”
Longman raised his eyebrows infinitesimally – touché! Leaning forward in his easy chair he said, “Now John, man to man, what exactly do you mean by this statement? I am a religious man; I go to church on Sunday. But yours is a terrifying vision of damnation for every human being on Earth, should this ship not be destroyed. Is there even the slightest glimmer of hope in your vision?”
