by Mark Clifton
This was the meaning. This was the essence of all religion, all philosophy, all education, all science, all Man's striving. If Man did not believe this, then there was no meaning to anything. Without this belief, nothing mattered, Man was nothing.
There was a hunger, a craving hunger in man to be reassured of it, to be told it again and again. He could not get enough of the telling. He became the willing, the eager victim of those who traded in the hunger, sickened in knowing he was being victimized, humbly supplicating to be victimized again, because maybe ... this time...
Even the shoddy, shabby trivialities of Hollywood, the nasty little shyster tricks of writers and producers in stringing together meaningless story formula. Even these, for they, too, promised...
If your heart is pure, your cause is just, your strength is great, your purpose firm; you can overcome the obstacles in your path to reach your heart's desire.
What else is there?
There, above us, it was being played out once more. Never had the forces of Right and Evil been so obviously enjoined. Never had Evil been so near to triumph, nor Good so valiant in near vanquishment. Never had heart and strength so fought with such firm purpose in just cause.
Now the obstacles were being overcome.
For others, in other longitudes, the space-suspended Earth turning in the sun's light as it does, and yet all this happening simultaneously, the battle must have been fought from dawn to dusk in the brightness of day, from morning until evening, from noon until midnight, from afternoon until the low ebb.
For us, there in Washington and along the Eastern seaboard of the United States, it seemed to have a special meaning.
For the turning point came with the first streaks of silver up the morning sky.
And confirmed for us that this time our faith and hope was justified as the sky grew in light.
All at once we knew that, this time, the battle would not reverse itself again. With so few of the globes remaining, and the hosts of evil discs which seemed to spawn still more to take the place of those destroyed, we did not know why or how the tide of battle turned.
But turned it had.
And with the first golden ray of the rising sun, the discs streaked away from the globes in cowardly fear. Their passage through the upper atmosphere came back to us in a scream of insane, craven terror.
And after them pursued the globes.
Now we could see them no more. Only here and there were bursts of flame brighter than the sun's light, gouts of red fire like opened arteries of blood.
The sun bathed the city streets in its warmth. Now the people who had watched all through the night began to move sluggishly about, as if wakened from a dream. They looked at one another, as waking members of a family might, and for the moment the close affection of family replaced the endless, irritated, sibling bickering among them.
I looked at Sara; she looked at me with a wan smile. Her face was drawn with weariness, and I suppose she saw the same in mine. But I doubt she found the same contentment and fulfillment in my eyes as I read in hers.
There seemed nothing to say. The magnificence of what we had seen obviated all comment, all evaluation. It needed no interpretation of meaning. Not to most, whatever complex wonders and doubts I might feel.
This was not of Earth. That much was clear. No group of men, no nation could have staged this production.
They had come from space.
They had come, but not in the way I had imagined they might, someday. I had thought they would come, if they ever came, in reason and rationality, beyond selfishness, beyond passion, beyond falseness. They had come, instead, in fire and passion, in war and destruction, spewing forces at one another beyond comprehension.
And completely phony!
A staged production, specifically for our benefit. A magnificent production, beyond all the wildest hopes of our own showmen—and as phony as anything that ever came out of Hollywood, where they prefer the phony even when the real, the rational, the believable would do the better job.
Yet what kind of alien mind could so accurately assess the human response as to know it would respond favorably to the phony where it might reject the real? How long had they been studying us without our knowledge? How deeply had they dug into us? They had used the very basic drive which had brought man up out of the slime to reach for the stars—faith in the triumph of virtue. To gain?
What? What did they plan to gain?
Or had we become so disillusioned in our ideals that we could contemplate no motive beyond self-gain?
There was nothing to say beyond the trivialities of routine.
"Well, Sara,” I began, and managed a smile of sorts. “Things will be popping today around the Pentagon. And if I remember right, we are the authorities on extraterrestrial psychology."
"Supposed to be,” she agreed with reservation. “Do you really understand all this? Well enough to tell the staff what it is all about."
"Not that well,” I said. “Just well enough to say right now that we can expect visitors shortly. From the globes, not the discs. Not well enough to know what they want from us. But well enough to know that we'll give it to them, whatever they want. They've seen to that."
"Well, naturally we would,” she said reproachfully. “After what they've done for us."
"Naturally,” I agreed with a smile.
"Naturally,” she said with a certain defiance. “Who could hold out or bargain? What with? And who would want to?"
"Still,” I said, “they'll be pounding on my door; I mean Earthmen, not Starmen. I don't expect ever to get within shouting distance of the Starmen. But the Earthmen are going to want me to brief them on how the Starmen's minds work."
"You think you can do it?” she asked doubtfully.
"Hell, no,” I said frankly. “But, just the same, we ought to be getting to work. Which means digging up some kind of transportation."
"I don't know where we are,” she said doubtfully.
"I'm a stranger here myself,” I agreed.
We walked back toward the community kitchen, and as we passed we looked inside. A taxi driver—we could tell by his cap—was nesting a mug of coffee between his hands, warming them as he drank the liquid to warm himself. We went in, and I sat down at his table while Sara detoured to bring us coffee of our own. The driver looked at me with neither welcome nor hostility.
"We work at the Pentagon,” I said to him. “We're trying to get to work. You willing to drive us?"
As if unwilling to take his eyes away from the visions of remembrance, he merely stared. When Sara brought up our coffee and sat down with us, he didn't notice.
"This is Dr. Kennedy,” she said to the driver. “He is an officer in the Space Navy Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology."
He didn't answer her. He looked at her, and looked back down at his coffee.
"Tenshun!” she barked. “Admiral Kennedy requires you drive him to the Pentagon!” I didn't think she had it in her.
It did the trick. He leaped out of his chair, froze at attention, and stared at me with horror.
"Well, now,” I said. “It's not that bad. I'm only a half-assed admiral. Sit down and finish your coffee."
He started to comply, then froze again.
"Okay,” I said wearily. “If you must. But you will drive my secretary and me to the Pentagon?"
"Yes, sir,” he said through stiff lips.
"You must be a stranger here in Washington yourself,” I said. “I can't conceive of a regular taxi driver reacting to a mere admiral."
"I was in the Navy, sir, until two weeks ago. Ocean Navy."
"That accounts for it,” I agreed.
I'd been rambling along with a double purpose; to finish our coffee and to bring him back down to Earth enough for it to be safe riding with him at the wheel. We seemed to accomplish both.
By comparison with the still-dazed people on the streets, he was as sharp as a tack. We climbed into his cab parked a quarter block up the street.<
br />
"You do know where the Pentagon is,” I said, as he pulled away from the curb.
He looked reproachfully at me through the rearview mirror.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The people on the streets were beginning to move about more actively now. There were lines forming at the doorways of community kitchens for morning coffee. Here and there, other cars than our own were beginning to move. The morning duty was replacing the night's dream.
I snapped on the taxi television set, and, as it warmed to life, one of the World Broadcasting Company's commentators, powered by his own sense of duty or perhaps the long black whip in Harvey Strickland's hand that could reach down anywhere in his organization to flick the bare buttocks of any laggard, was giving a run-down of happenings around the world.
Everywhere the pattern had been played out in the same way. Everywhere, at the same instant, the discs had fled and the globes pursued.
Yet there was a curious lack of something (enthusiasm, gladness, gratitude?) in the commentator's voice. At first I thought he was characteristically underplaying it, just giving the facts, ma'am, and then I realized there was a deliberate reluctance to express a reaction—as if he hadn't been informed as yet on company policy; and knew from experience that he'd better not have any opinion until he had been told what it ought to be.
Ah, he was a Good Boy, a true-blue Organization Man.
I was about to reach over and snap him off when a stir among the increasing crowds on the street distracted me. Over the cadenced tones of the commentator, I heard a hoarse scream from a man on the sidewalk. A hoarse ecstasy. And other voices took up the cry.
"They're coming back! The globes!"
"I see one!"
"It's coming!"
"There it is, see?"
"It's coming!"
Without being told, the driver pulled over to the curb, and again I started to reach over to snap off the television, but saw the face of the commentator beginning to fade and a globe beginning to appear. There was a flickering, a streaking of colors, as if the broadcast engineer were trying to maintain control of his sound and picture in spite of overpowering interference. Interference won. The sapphire-blue globe with its star of radiant light steadied and glowed on the screen. I did not snap it off.
"I gotta see this,” the taxi driver said. The dream had overwhelmed the duty once more. He threw open the door and slid out of his seat to stand on the curb.
We were about to follow him, Sara and I, when a new voice came through the television speaker—a voice resonant, calm, reassuring...
"We come from the stars...."
The voice was in English—American English. My experienced personnel man's ear caught a trace of sectional accent, but faint since it was overlaid with that spurious intonation belonging to no section which has been adopted by announcers as a badge of their calling.
"We mean you no harm...."
This was the second sentence. It was followed by another pause. Then came two short sentences. The streets outside were as still as a vacuum, except for this voice which penetrated everywhere, transcending the laws of electronic sound.
"We come as friends. We will not hurt you."
I had a fleeting vision of an exploring anthropologist who comes upon some obscure tribe in the remoteness of untouched jungle; one who speaks simply and reassuringly at the edge of their village compound; who speaks as if to small and frightened children who might possibly harm themselves in panic of fear.
"We return as ambassadors from our fleet which has gone in pursuit of our enemy—your enemy.
"We ask permission to land at your capital city, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America.
"We can spare only this one ship, with its crew of five, from the battle.
"We know you would prefer us to land at the United Nations, but there are compelling reasons why it must be Washington.
"We would give offense to none, by this, and hope you will grant our need.
"We will now withdraw to give you time for considering this petition.
"We will return in twenty-four hours, and wait the broadcasting of your permission, on any of your electronic channels.
"If you refuse, we will go away, without harming you.
"We hope you will not refuse. That you will permit us to land.
"We would like to meet you and greet you."
There was another pause, while the motionless natives thought this over. Then again came the careful, reassuring sentences:
"We mean you no harm. We come as friends. We will not hurt you."
The globe receded then. Fast, much faster than it had descended. As fast as the eye could alter its focus to follow. It ascended up into the golden light of morning, the heavenly blue of sky, and was gone.
There was dead silence in the streets for a moment after the voice ceased and the globe receded into the heavens.
Then a roar broke loose. There was no question of its welcome. The people were screaming in a frenzy of jubilation, embracing one another, pummeling one another.
I looked at Sara. There were tears in her eyes.
"They didn't demand anything,” she said. “They could have. They could have landed without asking permission. What's to stop them? But they asked."
"Um-hum,” I agreed. “And there's going to be holy hell to pay because they're landing here instead of at the United Nations. First mistake I've seen them make."
"They said they had their reasons,” she reproved me.
"Um-hum,” I said. “I suppose they have. They've played it too cagey all along to pull a blooper like that unless they had a reason."
Sara looked at me as if I were something white and crawling which had come out from under a rock.
How was I to know that while they were staging their big production over the major cities all over Earth, this had taken only part of their attention, and that the remainder of it had been engaged in sifting and sampling through the minds and emotions of human spectators below. That unshielding these minds and emotions had been one of the reasons for the production. That they were looking for a particular reaction to the production.
How was I to know that my doubt and cynicism of its reality were one of the first to register? That my being out of phase with my own kind brought me closer into phase with them?
How was I to know that their reason for landing in Washington was because that's where I happened to be?
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Starmen's diplomatic request for permission to land on the sovereign territory of the United States of America had come at 7:42 a.m.
At 8:00 a.m., the Home Office Policy Board of World Broadcasting Company (and affiliates) was assembled in their usual semicircle of seats facing Harvey Strickland's empty desk in his penthouse office atop his New York W.B.C. skyscraper.
This time the boss did not keep them cooling their heels. Since the entire organization was poised like runners at the starting line waiting for The Word to tell them when to start running, and in what direction, the chosen should be grateful for that—and they were. They murmured as much as he swept regally through the doorway in his purple dressing gown and took his throne seat before them. They hoped their gratitude got through to him.
They put it fervently into their bright and cheerful organization man's “Good morning, H.S.” These few were permitted to H.S. him, a mark of his confidence in them. Most often he observed the important executive tradition and ignored their greetings, but this morning he gave them a cheerful nod as reward.
It revealed his mood and set the tone. It ensured, in advance, that their independently thought-out editorials, the factual news articles, the independent commentaries and feature articles, the colloquially worded amateur-writer sentiments of Constant Reader letters to the editor, all these would reflect, confirm by selected fact, buttress by independent column and commentator philosophies, and subst
antiate that the right thinking public were all in unanimous agreement with Harvey Strickland's policy.
Harvey Strickland was jubilant. For all the power they had displayed, the Starmen had, nonetheless, revealed themselves as weak and uncertain. He, himself, would have landed, then and there, while the Earthmen were dazed and spent, when they had had no time to organize resistance or policy, at any time and place he chose to land without asking, without explaining. The Starmen had not done so, and were therefore—weak.
His confidence in his power and destiny all but overwhelmed him.
"They want something from us,” he said in his opening sentence. “They want it bad enough to beg us for it. They can't take it, unless we're willing to let them have it—whatever it is. Whatever happens, keep that in mind. We've got the upper hand. It's up to us to keep it. It's up to us to see that those knuckleheads down in Washington don't give it away."
He paused, and began to glare balefully at the editor in chief of his newspaper chain.
"Goddam it, Jim!” he exploded. “Listen to me. You can't listen while you're taking notes. Goddam it, do you have to take notes on something so elementary as that?"
Jim gulped, turned pale, and shoved his pad and pencil back into his pocket.
"Sorry, H.S.,” he murmured. “Every word you said was so vital, so..."
"Awright, awright,” Strickland shut him off, but he was not unpleased.
Jim carefully concealed a sigh of relief.
"Now, where were we in our discussion, gentlemen?” Strickland asked. “Okay,” he answered himself without pause. “We've got something they want, and we've got it right here in America. No place else, now. Remember that. Right here. Along with deciding whether we will let them have it—and at what price, remember that, gentlemen, at what price?—we've gotta fend off those thieving foreigners who will try to get in on it."
He broke off to gaze in exasperation at the ceiling.
"Sometimes it's too much,” he groaned. “It's hard enough to get those knuckleheads in Washington to do the right thing, but at the same time we've gotta keep the foreign nations in their places, too."
