When They Come from Space

by Mark Clifton

  "Yet space ships are built."

  "So there must be an intelligent species, somewhere."

  "Perhaps merely masquerading as a human being?"

  "Why would they want to do that?"

  "That's only one of the things we don't comprehend, yet."

  "Our four Black Fleet strikes have come to nothing."

  "I som only the vaguest telepathy communication in this species. Random, disorganized, and undirected flashes."

  "But they do have electronic communication. Highly organized. Why weren't the visits of the Black Fleet electronically communicated?"

  "We're in for quite a problem. We've always thought intelligence was characterized by the communication of knowledge. Here we find the emphasis is upon concealment of knowledge."

  "The strikes of the Black Fleet were known. They were witnessed. We saw to that. I sommed the correct emotional reactions to them from the witnesses. I think we were correct in striking only remote spots where no damage to intelligent life..."

  "First rule: We cannot harm intelligent life."

  "First question: How do we know we've found some?"

  "Our theory breaks down. We assumed unintelligent responses to the Black Fleet might be due to a lower order of species in remote areas, that the more intelligent might concentrate..."

  "This is one of the most intense concentrations. Would you say there was any qualitative difference of intelligence in the attendant who brought us these drinks and those who witnessed our strikes in remote areas?"

  "The same horror of the unknown."

  "The same ability to cope with their environment barely well enough to stay alive."

  "The similarities are endless. The differences are nil."

  "We have not yet contacted intelligent life."

  "These artifacts all around us show a high order of intelligence."

  "There must be two species."

  "For some reason the lower order is keeping the evidence of our visit from the knowledge of the higher order."

  "Then we must make our strikes close to the areas of high-order artifacts. We must smoke out the intelligent species which conceals itself."

  "It may take some doing. That concealment is extraordinary. None of the individuals we have sommed acknowledge intelligence beyond their own."

  "That's not the only thing we have to solve. If we are to masquerade as one of them, we've got some practice to do. They haven't negated gravity, for example. I sommed the attendant's surprise that the bed didn't sag under your weight."

  "We can't afford that kind of error. If that one will detect such minor defects, think what a high order of intelligence might see."

  "No more appearing as purple whirlwinds, either."

  "We thought it might shock him into revealing knowledge of where the intelligent ones are to be found. That perhaps he was conspiring to conceal their presence. That perhaps they were intelligent enough to expect us and deemed it prudent to hide from us until they looked us over."

  "That would be natural enough in the survival mechanism—if they were that intelligent. Surely their logic would tell them that when they started stirring in their egg it would be noticed—and investigated."

  "But the attendant showed no knowledge of such a conspiracy of concealment."

  "Certainly we will have to run the risk of accidentally harming intelligent life, by bringing our phenomena of visit out in the open."

  "Meantime, let's practice the role of the human. Now on this matter of gravity, for example..."

  "Yes, an artifact must sag when we sit on it. The carpet must show footprints when we walk on it."

  "That's a little too much. I heard the walls creak and the whole building tremble."

  "We're going to have to give over searching for the intelligent ones, at present, and concentrate on simulating the human life, instead of the intelligent one."

  "For the present, then, we'll accept the most popular art form representation of humans as our model. I think we need to get out and around a bit more, get a little better idea of what is acceptable to humans. If the intelligent species is masquerading as human, he may not reveal himself to us unless we do the same. Perhaps he is concealing himself from the human, as well as from us. Perhaps he will reveal himself only when we are suitably disguised so he may reveal himself to us without, at the same time, revealing himself to the humans."

  There was a murmur of agreement, and the Five merged into one invisible vortex of radiant energy. They soared through the interstices of molecules in the outer wall.

  The Night Manager, backed by the House Detective and the Dubious Bellhop, knocked discreetly on the door of 842. There was no answer. He knocked again, although his developed hotel sense already told him the room was empty, that there was no guest or intruder asleep, passed out, or refusing to answer.

  He unlocked the door and threw it wide.

  Across the room, in the far wall, he was horrified to see a three-foot spiral of radiation-scorched paint. He saw a line of footprints, the carpet nap ground to a powder. He saw a deep sag, reaching almost to the floor, on this side of the bed.

  These guests had been even more destructive of property than normal—and they hadn't registered, or paid, or paid their bar bill. And how was that going to look on his report to management?

  It was well for us that the House Detective was an avid fan of science fiction, and thought this phenomenon was sufficiently outré to bring to the attention of Space Navy, Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology.

  It was too bad that Pentagon red tape prevented the communication from reaching our department until it was too late.

  Although, I still don't see what I might have done about it.

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  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dr. Kibbie proved right. Time, time was indeed precious.

  I had a scant month to get my program of becoming an important man into motion. Because Central Personnel was on a kick of accumulating evidence to show how much they were contributing to economy-in-government, they kept cutting my requisitions for more employees in half—and tallying up the savings to prove how efficient they were.

  I endeared myself to them by doubling, tripling, quadrupling my demands, and the mushrooming numbers of people they refused to let me have would make this a banner year for them.

  As it turned out, I was able to hire only two thousand five hundred and sixty-nine people and seven hundred and seventy-two Ph.D.s, in that month. My separation of the two species of employees is conscious. The Ph.D. seems determined to separate himself from the human race; and the human race, in equal disdain, is more than agreeable. Why should I antagonize anybody through attempting to join them together again?

  Once or twice Shirley did murmur some objections. It seemed that the weekly necessity of finding larger and larger quarters to house our staff kept confusing her on whom she was permitted to administrate, and who was a mere moving man.

  Further, since there was more paper work involved in hiring or transferring an employee than any other employee could handle, the department had become so overburdened with handling the process that it would surely capsize and sink. I gave her the usual governmental solution to that problem: If there was too much work involved for the people in her department, then we must simply hire more people. Also, hadn't we better set up a special committee to investigate the amount of work involved?

  She shuddered and pointed out that she was working night and day to administrate all this, as it was, without taking on an investigating committee. I pointed out, quite logically, that the superior executive must learn to delegate authority and responsibility—and hadn't we better concentrate on hiring her a cabinet of specialists to aid her?

  But her heart was not really in her objections, for she was able to walk the streets again without dodging former friends who played the numbers game of importance in Washington in the same way the Hollywood climber drops names. Sara had given me no problem. When she heard I wasn't
coming back to Computer Research, she took it for granted I wouldn't be able to run the government without her help. When I telephoned her, diffidently, to suggest she weigh her loyalty to Computer Research against the interest and advantage of joining me here at the Pentagon (and expecting some demurring and hesitancy from her) she responded by rather crisply letting me know she had been packed for three days, waiting, and apparently I really did need a secretary or it wouldn't have taken me so long to get around to that detail.

  Nor did Sara and Shirley strike any sparks in one another. Both had about the same opinion of me—that I didn't know enough to come in out of the rain. They seemed quite willing to share the responsibility for me—the one to see that I wore my overshoes, the other to see that I carried my umbrella.

  Even Space Navy seemed a little relieved to find Sara on the scene. I was a bachelor, unattached, and Dr. Kinsey had pointed out a few things about bachelors in their late thirties. F.B.I. had not succeeded in finalizing its investigations into my secret sex practices—maybe because I hadn't had any. Now all was well, for the time being. That I had so promptly sent for my previously established private secretary, a female, lowered some eyebrows which had begun to rise. The men seemed reassured, although their wives might not approve.

  Dr. Kibbie was delighted. In common with most governmental officials, he hadn't really had any idea of how enormously much two billion dollars actually is; and he wasn't sleeping well nights, worrying about how he was going to get rid of it all in time for the next appropriations. Now this seemed to be heading toward a solution. He began to bring his various department heads around to show what was being done in other yards; and they began, appropriately, to hate me.

  Everything was normal—for Washington, that is.

  I hadn't really believed it, but I found my own importance was beginning to increase proportionate to the numbers of people I was hiring. Of course I was too far down the echeIons to be noticed by any news reporters, to say nothing of being mentioned by any commentators; but various other minor executives were beginning to nod when we met in the halls and even chat with me a little in the cafeteria. Guardedly, of course; and with a roving eye to make sure they were being observed by those even lower in the chain of echelon than we; and not being observed by any higher who might be inclined to place them at my level if they were seen talking to me.

  Indeed, I was, at this point, still so far down in the lower levels that I hadn't felt even a remotely indirect pressure applied by one Mr. Harvey Strickland.

  Of course I knew there had to be a Mr. Harvey Strickland. I had seen too many wholesome, frank, good boys who always do what they are told, parlayed from City Councilman to the apex of government or near it in a few short years, to doubt the existence of a Mr. Harvey Strickland somewhere behind the scenes writing the script and pulling the strings.

  There is always a Mr. Harvey Strickland.

  This, a summary of the state of things at the time the Black Fleet struck again.

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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first announcement of the attacking Black Fleet came over the six-o'clock evening analysis-of-our-troubles program. I was sitting alone in my suite at Washington's exclusive Brighton Hotel—paid for out of Dr. Kibbie's two billion as temporary quarters while my status was being clarified.

  The announcement broke with stunning suddenness, in the middle of a routine analysis of the commentator's opinion of the country's opinion of the current Administration as reflected in the stock market. The commentator was pausing for the Idiot's Reminder, out of camera focus, to catch up with his rapid-fire delivery, when the fax machine beside his desk suddenly went crazy.

  The bell jangled urgently, and kept on jangling in spite of the commentator's headshake of annoyance that somebody had missed a cue. Then the machine began to chatter and a message began to roll.

  The young, scholarly commentator took one quick glance at the lead sentence. He leaped to his feet, kicked his chair over backward. He swallowed hard. When he started to read, his voice cracked and broke. A quick-witted cameraman moved in for a close-up on the fax paper, so the televiewers could read the message for themselves.

  "An Air Defense Command outpost has sighted a large fleet of unidentified black, disc-shaped projectiles sweeping toward the Capital from the general direction of lower Chesapeake Bay."

  I cocked an eyebrow and looked at the screen sardonically. All right, so it was a government commercial telling us we should be scared enough to pay the higher taxes Congress was contemplating. I could anticipate the following lines: “All citizens are urged to start digging their bomb shelters at once. The Civilian Defense Command must begin considering the appointment of regional commanders—now! Airforce anti-interceptor anti-missile anti-missile anti-missiles must receive the highest priority for research since the Black Fleet is now within a few miles of us and coming fast!"

  The Black Fleet!

  I gasped. It hadn't registered. So some stupe had leaked the information out of our department after all. Dr. Kibbie would be fit to be tied. Maybe some Pentagon Department had got its Madison Avenue publicity firm to help it get its appropriation; and to hell with Dr. Kibbie, and the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology.

  So I had failed in my first mission—in a government of the people, by the people, for the people—and the people were going to find out anyhow.

  There had been a longer-than-normal pause while the commentator kept looking off to one side. He turned back to face the audience.

  "We take you now to our own Bobby Lovelace, news analyst directly at the scene,” he informed us.

  "Oh, sure,” I said in disgust. “Ham it up, boys. Long as you've let it out, milk it for everything it's got."

  There was the usual flickering on the screen, an unscheduled rough word spoken by some engineer along the line, a new face on the screen. No doubt their own Bobby Lovelace, although he missed giving himself a credit line. His eyes were distended, his face pale, his hands trembled.

  "Evil!” he was mouthing in a whisper. “Horrible! Unclean! You'll see when they get there. I can't talk about it. You'll see for yourselves.” He waved his hands in negation before his face. The camera moved off him and the screen blanked out.

  "Oh, come now, fellows,” I exclaimed aloud. “That's hamming it up too much. Even for television."

  I had a full moment to reflect upon the diminishing returns of piling drama upon drama in futile attempt to stir the interest of an apathetic public already surfeited with Hollywood's writing stupidities.

  But then, from far down Connecticut Avenue, from somewhere deep in the marble and stone heart of the city, there drifted the faint, strange sound of a pulsating siren. Nearby, police whistles begin to shrill, stop, shrill again, stop, shrill again—the best that could be accomplished on short notice to sound an air-raid warning.

  "This is going pretty far,” I murmured. “When the police department sells its services to put over a TV program."

  But it must have had its effect on some, for in the adjoining suite the sounds of a cocktail party for some petty senator faded to a strangled, waiting silence.

  For the first time, I felt unease; as if there were something in the atmosphere.

  "Good God,” I breathed. “Don't tell me that even I am responding to such Hollywood hokum!” But I was. To my astonishment, I was beginning to wonder if it were hokum, after all.

  The screen came on again, and we were back in the Washington studio. The young commentator, whose face still reflected his first shock, had had a little time to collect himself; but he had to try three times before he could light a nonchalant cigarette. The cameraman must have been assigned an acting part, also, because he was having trouble keeping the news desk and fax machine in focus.

  The fax machine was still. And that stillness was even more compelling than its frantic activity had been.

  "They've put a good director on this production,” I said, still aloud. “A cheap one
would be emoting all over the place.” I paused. “I think I'll watch it,” I said. “It might turn into a pretty good show after all."

  And felt a renewal of my astonishment that I didn't believe it was a staged production, in spite of my spoken words. Perhaps it was the tenseness in the atmosphere. The air was heavy, stifling. I got up out of my chair and walked across the room to open the French windows which let out upon a private balcony. There were no street noises. In this neighborhood it was always quiet, subdued in the genteel manner; but there was always that distant throb of a city inhabited by people who were more than one quarter alive. Now there seemed to be a sound vacuum.

  I walked back and sat down again before the television screen, which lit up half of one wall in the room.

  As if from force of habit, the commentator picked up a sheet of his script, always at hand in case the Idiot's Reminder broke down. He looked at it with an air of wonderment, then he raised his eyes to the camera again.

  "Well,” he said simply. “I guess we'll just have to wait this out together."

  I caught myself nodding in agreement.

  "Good work,” I said approvingly. “Damn good work.” But somehow, now, my persistence in regarding it as fiction seemed the tawdry unreality, instead of, as usual, the production.

  We waited it out together.

  I caught myself wondering if I shouldn't be trying to get down to my office at the Pentagon, and checking the impulse with asking what I would do after I got there. If this did prove fiction, that kind of response could make any official a laughingstock. If it were not fiction...

  I swallowed.

  I looked at the commentator again. He was still sitting. He shrugged. He looked down at his script. He looked up again. He flicked the script he had been reading before the announcement.

  "Seems silly to go on with this drivel, now,” he said.

  I think that blasphemous statement convinced me more than anything else. That, and nothing happening. For the first law of entertainment is that something must be happening every minute, every second. There must be no silence, no ghastly pause.