V

by A. C. Crispin

  She paused for a long moment, then, as Mike slowly straightened, continued, "You have to understand our point of view, Mr. Donovan. You were among the first to go aboard their ship; you worked in close proximity with them for quite some time; several nights ago you met with Kristine Walsh—"

  Donovan turned, his surprise plain. She nodded. "And now you show up here, escaped from someplace no one ever escaped from before . . . wearing that—"

  "Goddamn it! I know what I'm wearing! How'd you know about Kristine?"

  " 'Cause I was there. Outside. Watching."

  "Listen, kid, you want to talk about setups—"

  She nodded. "Yes, I saw it."

  "Then why the hell didn't you let out a yell and warn me?"

  "I wasn't sure who was setting who up—or which side you're really on."

  Mike looked at her, his green eyes very serious. "I'm on the right side, kid. Believe me."

  There was a long pause, then finally Juliet nodded. "Well. Why don't you tell us what you know?"

  The group gathered in the conference area, and Donovan faced them, looking out across the expanse of still-suspicious faces. "Did any of you see the interrupted broadcast the night the Visitors declared martial law?"

  A general murmur of assent followed.

  "Well, indirectly, I suppose I'm responsible for that move on their part . . . though I'm pretty sure they would've done it eventually. That evening I got aboard the Mother Ship. I filmed Diana and Steven, one of her lieutenants, eating animals as large as guinea pigs whole. They're not humanoid at all. They're reptiles of some sort, wearing very clever masks to hide their alien features. Up till tonight, I thought they were all just as ugly on the inside . . . as evil . . . as they appeared to my eyes on the outside. But tonight, two of them, Martin and Barbara, risked their lives to get me off the Mother Ship and back here—so I guess looks really aren't everything. That's it, in a nutshell."

  An excited babble—mixed equally of belief and skepticism—swelled after Donovan finished speaking. Elias waved an excited hand. "Reptiles? You sure, man? What did they look like?"

  Donovan grimaced. "I'm no artist, guys."

  "But Roger is!" A young black woman pushed a darkhaired man forward. "Go on, Rog!"

  Taking a piece of charcoal from someone, Roger, in response to Donovan's description, began to sketch on the concrete wall. Mike watched in admiration—and with a shudder of recognition—as the reptilian features he'd glimpsed twice now (the second time had been just prior to his capture at Richland) took shape as a result of his words. As Roger drew, Donovan continued to give a detailed summary of the Visitors' behavior.

  "How's that?" Roger asked, stepping back.

  "Yeah." Donovan gave him a respectful nod. "I'd have to get my tape to check every detail, but that's pretty close."

  "Where is that tape, Mr. Donovan?" Juliet asked. "We could use it in our studies. We really need to recruit a herpetologist. Does anybody know one?"

  "Herpetologist!" Elias rolled his eyes in mock horror. "Julie, don't tell me you is diseased, mama!"

  Amid general laughter, Robert Maxwell admitted that he'd minored in paleontology, so had some background in animal biology. "But, reptiles flying around in spaceships?" Brad asked. "That's crazy! Lizards are stupid—I used to have a chameleon for a pet, and they make a cat look like a genius by comparison."

  "Cats are smart!" flared Louise, who had adopted a stray tabby within days of their move into the ancient building.

  "It's really not crazy, Brad," explained Maxwell. "It could have happened here on Earth."

  "What?" Donovan said.

  "Up till about sixty-five million years ago—the end of the Cretaceous period—reptiles ruled this planet. They had been evolving and changing for millions of years . . . far longer than man has been around. Who knows what they might have evolved into? But then, the geologic evidence shows, a meteor—a really big one—impacted with the Earth, probably landing somewhere in the ocean. Its impact messed up the environment—probably screwed up the food chain, by first raising temperatures, then by creating so much dust the whole planet was dark for a couple of years. Nobody knows definitively whether this raised temperatures—via the greenhouse effect—or lowered them—by blocking out the sun's rays. But either way, the impact probably contributed to wiping out most of the reptile population—allowing the mammals—us—to gain the ascendancy."

  "Wai-i-it a minute, Doc!" Elias shook his head. "How the hell you know all this if it happened so long ago?"

  "Iridium," said Juliet.

  "Right, iridium. It's a common substance in asteroids, comparatively rare here on Earth. Sediment layers around the Earth show marked increases in iridium in the soil layer sixty-five million years ago. The asteroid impact has been pretty well accepted as an actual occurrence—what they're still arguing about is how it affected the ecology of that time . . ."

  Elias looked impressed in spite of himself. "So you're sayin' that maybe this meteor heated up the place, and those reptiles couldn't handle it?"

  "Reptiles here on Earth are cold-blooded, Elias," Juliet said. "Their internal metabolism can't adjust to handle wide temperature variations as well as the metabolism of mammals."

  "Hey!" Elias snapped his fingers. "So all we got to do is heat up all our outdoor barbecues at once and—boom! Kentucky-fried horny toad!"

  Everyone laughed. Maxwell shook his head, grinning. "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. Wish it were. Extreme heat would probably drive them away—only problem is, with their technology, we'd have to get the whole planet so hot we'd probably fry too. Besides, to generate that much heat quickly would take something on the order of a nuclear holocaust."

  "Forget that, then," Brad said. "Killing off the human race just to get rid of the Visitors is definitely cutting off your noses, so to speak."

  "What about cold?" asked Louise. "Reptiles here on Earth can't handle cold."

  "Those suckers sure can," said Caleb Taylor. "The one who rescued me took over two hundred degrees below zero."

  "Those fake skins may act as insulation," Donovan volunteered. "Besides, I'm sweating wearing this uniform. This fabric is super-insulated. Maybe that accounts for how he did it." He thought for a moment. "They keep their Mother Ship so dimly lighted . . . maybe bright lights would blind them?"

  Juliet nodded. "That may be a very practical suggestion—the most practical offered so far. But even though it may be a partial strategy, we're going to need more effective and longer-lasting means than that."

  Everyone murmured agreement. Juliet rested her chin on her hand, thinking. "The eating Mr. Donovan described seems consistent with the biochemistry of reptiles as we know them. I wonder if there's a way to get at their main food source . . . poison it, somehow. If we could identify where they keep it."

  "Yeah," said Robert Maxwell. "But we'd have to develop a poison that wouldn't kill the host animal. Reptiles prefer live—or freshly killed—animals."

  "What about that poison spray I described?" Donovan asked. "I thought snakes had to bite you—these guys don't have fangs to inject venom."

  "It's fairly common for reptiles here on Earth to spray their venom," Maxwell answered. "Besides, it's probably a sort of vestigial trait they've retained from earlier times."

  "It's pretty deadly," Mike said, thinking of how Tony had been blinded. "Can you make an antidote?"

  Juliet shrugged. "Possible. Procedures for creating an antivenin are pretty standard—but we'd need a quantity of venom."

  "Good," said Robert sardonically. "Let's add that to the old shopping list. We've got to get one of those guys for Julie to examine!"

  "Yeah . . ." Juliet sighed. "If wishes were horses . . ." She exchanged a quick glance with Ruby, then straightened in sudden decision. "You know what we ought to do? Define our overall plan of resistance."

  "Good idea," Robert said.

  "How about this," she began, ticking points off on her fingers. "First of all, to undermine all Visitor acti
vity in every way we can. That means by direct methods as well as more passive resistance . . . work slowdowns at the factories, stuff like that. For the more direct means, well, they can't have an unlimited supply of vehicles. Those things sit on street corners unattended . . . sometimes for hours. We ought to be able to bollix 'em somehow." A general murmur of agreement filled the room.

  "Then, secondly, I think we've got to find out what their hidden goals are," Juliet continued.

  "Hidden?" asked Brad.

  "Sure," Donovan said. "They've lied to us about everything so far. They're dumping that supposedly life-saving chemical out into the atmosphere—at least, here in L.A. they are."

  "And they've brainwashed so many people with that conversion process of theirs," Juliet said. "We need to find out more about it. And more about who they may have gotten to in that way."

  Donovan waved his hand for attention. "When I was captive up there, Diana told them to take me to what she called the 'Final Area'—whatever that is. To forestall that, the Visitor who helped me out, Martin, asked her why she didn't convert me. He made it sound like a challenge. First Diana said that converting me would take too long . . ." He looked slightly sheepish. "There seems to be a popular misconception that I'm stubborn and rather pig-headed."

  "Oh, I can't imagine that!" said Juliet, with a twinkle. Laughter echoed around the room.

  "Yeah . . . Well, anyway, after Martin kinda threw down the glove to her, Diana changed her mind, and told him to lock me up—which was how he was able to break me out of there later. So the success of their conversion process is dependent on the individual involved. Martin told me that if Diana just needs information, she'll go for it in much more ordinary ways . . . like torture. They were strapping one poor little SOB into a chair, and preparing to use something like a miniature blowtorch on him . . ."

  Murmurs of unsurprised outrage filled the room. Donovan shrugged. "I guess the message is, don't fall into their hands if you can possibly help it. They're not playing for small change. We also ought to consider whether we can get in touch with other Visitors themselves who are like Martin—opposed to their leader's scheme—whatever it may be—here on this planet."

  "Yeah," agreed Robert Maxwell. "And third in our plan of attack should be to analyze them physically. Which brings us back to the fact that we need a specimen."

  "We've also got to spread the word about their reptilian nature," Juliet said. "Most people are repulsed by snakes and lizards anyway—unfair as that may be to the creatures here on Earth, it will probably work in our favor. For that, we're going to need Mr. Donovan's tape."

  "Agreed," said Mike.

  Ruby Engels spoke up for the first time. "We should also circulate the word about them abducting whole towns of people, and torturing them. Most people still think that if they're not scientists, they have nothing to fear!"

  "Yeah," said Elias, pain flitting briefly across his dark features, "that sort of thinking is easy to fall back on. We got to let folks know the truth!"

  "And, lastly," Juliet said, "and most importantly, we have to establish contact with other groups in other cities . . . around the world."

  "Right," said Donovan. "They're sure as hell out there. We're gonna have to bypass ordinary means of communication—we know they've got AT&T in their pockets."

  "Right. And once we figure out a way to talk to each other, we've got to organize coordinated plans to get rid of them. That's our only chance at winning."

  Everyone nodded, and murmurs of agreement filled the room.

  "Now . . ." Juliet said. "Let's make a list of targets locally. We'll make our first overt move tomorrow."

  Chapter 16

  "What sort of thing did you, have in mind for tomorrow, Julie?" Caleb Taylor asked.

  Juliet sighed. "We need weapons. Much as I hate the idea of violence, Mr. Donovan's story about San Pedro pretty well confirms that if we're going to stand against them, we've got to be armed. Our information confirms they've set up an armory here in the city to equip all their roadblocks and the Visitor Friends units. How about it?"

  Taut faces nodded silent agreement. Robert Maxwell felt something squeeze his insides at the idea of going up against the shock troopers he'd seen—he'd never had any military experience. Too young for Korea and too old for Vietnam . . . He straightened, deciding that he'd send Robin back to the mountain camp and her mother, tonight, to wait until the attack was over.

  Maxwell looked around the assembled group. His daughter wasn't there . . . No great surprise, but he realized suddenly he hadn't seen her since before Donovan had arrived—several hours, now. Leaving the group to plan the logistics of the raid, he searched the headquarters quickly. No Robin.

  Venturing outside, he looked around. There was a half moon, masked occasionally by scudding clouds, but Maxwell could see well enough to tell she wasn't in the culvert. He wandered around the side of the building. "Robin?"

  His soft call frightened some tiny creature in the underbrush, but otherwise brought no response. "Binna? It's Dad." In the distance, a police siren shrieked.

  Maxwell's heart was hammering by now, the blood thudding so emphatically in his ears that it was hard to listen. He checked his watch—eight thirty. After curfew. If Robin was outside, on the streets that lay just over the hillside and down the road, then she would be fair game for the nightly Visitor patrols. Maxwell hurried through the gap in the battered chain-link fence, his steps coming rapidly.

  Once on the streets, he ducked his head into his collar, shuffling along like a man who has had one drink too many and has only just realized the time. He kept his head low, but beneath his brows his eyes were busy, roving every intersection, every alley. His fear was so tangible that he fancied it followed him like a cloud—like that little guy with the unpronounceable name in the Li'l Abner comics. Every time he glimpsed a red uniform he was afraid there would be a familiar figure in a white blouse and gray jeans with it.

  Nearly an hour passed and there was still no Robin.

  Maxwell thought of turning back. His prepared excuse of having had one drink too many was now very thin, it was so late. Maybe Julie could send Elias and the Angels out after her . . . Robert bit his lip. Those young punks in the gang had looked pretty tough . . . What am I going to do? Maxwell wondered.

  He decided he'd turn back after one more corner.

  Robert Maxwell rounded the corner, only to find himself facing a squad vehicle. He stopped, half-turned, then heard a hard, reverberating voice: "Stand right there! You're breaking curfew—let me see your identification!"

  Oh, damn. Damndamn DAMN!! Maxwell halted, though his anguished mind wanted only to run.

  "Against the wall."

  Robert, moving like an old, old man, walked over to the cement-block side of the building. "Sorry," he said, slurring his words. "Got to drinkin' with a . . . lady friend. You know how it gets . . . forgot the time, I'm sorry . . . m'wife's gonna be pissed at me . . ."

  He heard footsteps behind him, but realized that the first trooper had not left his original post—so there were two of them. Harsh fingers grabbed his hands, placing them on the gritty surface, then, moving with unpleasant, impersonal familiarity, grabbed his legs at the thigh, first right, then left, so he stood spread-eagled in the position television police dramas had made so familiar. Now he really understood why they did it this way—it was impossible for him to move easily, since all his weight rested on his hands and his toes. It would take him two moves, instead of just one, to free himself and run.

  The hands ran over his body, digging hard into pockets, beneath his arms, at his sides, finishing with his thighs. "He's unarmed," said a second Visitor voice. The trooper removed Robert's wallet. "You can turn around now."

  Maxwell turned around, so frightened that he was afraid he'd disgrace himself—his stomach heaved and he had a sudden, terrible need to urinate. He took deep breaths, forcing himself to study the man who was going through his billfold.

  A black man
—or, he amended to himself in the face of Donovan's revelation, this one wore the mask of a black man in his late thirties. Maxwell found himself experiencing a strange double-vision effect, picturing the reptilian features underlying the ones he could see with his eyes. He thought of long, flicking tongues and venom within that grim-jawed mouth, and felt his stomach flip-flop again.

  The trooper looked up from his prisoner's driver's license. "Another Maxwell. Now isn't that interesting?"

  Robert looked up at him, his eyes widening. "Another Maxwell? What do you mean?" But, sickened, he knew already.

  "Just that we picked up a young lady late this afternoon with the same address as yours. Her name was Robin. Your daughter?" The Visitor's deep voice was almost sympathetic beneath its alien overtone.

  "Yes," said Robert numbly. There didn't seem to be any point in denying it. Oh, God, Binna! Where are you? What's happening to you? Are you all right?

  "I've got to report this to headquarters," the Visitor said, turning his head to address the guard. "Bring him over beside the hatch."

  Maxwell, under the guard's direction, reassumed his spread-eagled position against the side of the squad vehicle, while the black leader went inside. Maxwell turned to the guard. "Please . . . tell me where my daughter is."

  The Visitor just smiled. Robert swung the other way at the sound of booted feet on the ramp. "My daughter? You have her? Where is she?"

  The Visitor's deep voice still held that touch of sympathy. "She's our prisoner."

  Maxwell made a quick lunge toward the interior of the craft. The leader stopped him with a hard hand on his arm. "Not in there. She's been taken to the Mother Ship."

  "Is she all right?"

  The Visitor looked at him levelly, unblinking. "I'm told that will depend on you, Mr. Maxwell."

  Robert looked down, biting his lip. Oh, God, don't let this happen to me . . . please, no . . . "What do you mean?" he asked.