by Mark Clifton
The social problems posed were stupendous. Who should be invited to the dinner? Should there be multiple dinners? Certainly not, this was no political election gimmick! For once and for all, status levels would be decided by who received invitations. It must be quite exclusive. But should they establish a secondary status level by inviting more people to the reception following the dinner? What about seating arrangements?
Should all five of the Spacemen be seated together? Did I think their officers would be insulted if they were seated with their men? How many were officers and how many were men, anyway? I didn't know? How stupid, how very stupid of me not to have found out such an important thing as that!
Perhaps they should set up a second affair in the scullery, where the common help from the spaceship could be fed later with the servants?
What would the Starmen wear? Would they come in smelly uniforms, or would they have black tie, or white tie? What dishes did they prefer? No information whatever! Now wasn't that just like a foreigner, not to give their hostesses a teeny hint!
What about this word going around that the visitors were really green spiders with red eyes running up and down their legs? Just on the chance, should the menu include—ugh—flies?
I suddenly created a new position for Sara. I switched such calls over to the Social Secretary of the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology. She didn't thank me, but she did pick up on it with considerable more finesse than I had been able to muster.
Gently, firmly, she suggested on the matter of flies, for example, that they wait and see what the visitors really did look like. We didn't really have it on the best authority that they actually were spiders; but if they happened to be, weren't there just oodles and oodles of flies in the slums? And didn't Washington have some of the finest slums in the country? Let the flies wait. They'd have from the morning, when the Starmen appeared, until evening to gather flies. Perhaps the Junior League and the Junior Chamber could make a day's outing gathering enough flies?
Oh, you're quite, quite welcome. We're glad to be of service on such an important matter. That's why we pay taxes, you know.
But not all questions were referred to our department. After all, the women were American, with pioneer blood coursing through their veins. They were able to make some decisions all by themselves. On the matter of addressing the Starmen, for example. Your Excellencies? No. How did we know they were excellent? Your Worthy Starshipsires? Awkward, and one simply mustn't be awkward. They finally had to let Sara arbitrate. She ruled a simple Sir should be adequate, until we knew more.
Should the women curtsy to the Spacemen? To spiders, my dear? Better wait on that momentous decision, too.
Now about dress? Wait a minute.
Sara looked over at me. For the moment I was between calls and conferences.
"They want to know how to dress,” she said. “Oh, dammit, Sara,” I snapped. “For Chrissake! All right. Let the men wear tails. It'll be symbolic. Let the women dress the way savages dress everywhere—bedeck themselves in old dead parts of birds and animals, smear their faces with colored clay, mash flowers over themselves to conceal their natural stench. The same way they always dress. Now, for Chrissake!"
"Don't you think it should be formal, really formal?” Sara asked her caller sweetly.
We even got a call from two enterprising fixers who had formed a merger and cornered all the local call girls, just in case the Starmen could get away from the public reception for a while to relax and enjoy themselves. The girls weren't quite sure how to manage green spiders, but at least they wouldn't be any worse than some of those drunken, slobbering old congressmen who were always so pure and noble back home.
The long, hellish day gradually drew to a close. The intervals between calls grew longer. I looked over at Sara during one of those intervals, and she was crying. “S'matter, Sara?” I asked.
She looked up at me while she fished in her desk drawer for a tissue.
"Don't they remember last night at all? The courage? The beauty? The purity? You'd think..."
"I know,” I said. “I'd like to go somewhere and hide, pretend I don't belong to the human race."
She wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
"When I was a kid,” I said, and looked back in memory to a long time ago, “I used to dream about the time when we would meet some other life intelligence face to face. I was pretty innocent, I guess. Because, in that imagining, I always saw Man standing straight and proud—and I was so proud of him."
She lay her head down on her desk and sobbed uncontrollably.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The President, or at least his phalanx of advisers, had made a protocol decision on who should stand where. It was 9:52 a.m. Radio contact with the globe, invisible somewhere out in space and unregistered on any of our tracking equipment, had agreed on 10:00 a.m. as a suitable landing time.
The President stood at the head of a flying wedge of dignitaries. He was flanked on either side by the key Senate and House leaders, appropriately spaced with an eye to the best camera angles. Behind the President, and blocked from view from any direction, stood the Vice-President. Behind them were intermingled some five hundred congressmen—not really intermingled, since seniority and party affiliation sorted them rigidly, although nobody but Congress would see the order of their standing. In a little group, by itself on one side of the Congress, stood the Cabinet. In a little group, on the opposing side, stood the Supreme Court. To the left stood the leftist-country ambassadors, and to the right stood the rightist ambassadors—and if the uncommitted nations didn't know where to stand it served them right that they were left without any special place to stand.
Still farther off to the right, we representatives of the Pentagon stood. I seemed to be the only male in mufti in that contingent. Trouble was, they still hadn't officially made me a Half-Planet-Admiral-Rear-Side; and I wasn't sure I would be violating more sensitivities by assuming a uniform not officially mine, or appearing as a civilian. Apparently either way I was damned, for the uniformed officers seemed to shrink away from me, as if to say they didn't know me and couldn't account for why I was there. Even Dr. Kibbie in his Star Admiral's uniform, seemed to prefer standing with Star Admiral Lytle, Space Navy's Personnel Director.
Sara, loyally, stood proudly beside me.
"Nine fifty-two,” she said. “Eight minutes. But the globe is nowhere in sight."
"Insects are sluggish until the air warms up,” I said, sotto voce. “Maybe ten o'clock was too early."
She didn't bother to smile.
As far as we could see, in any direction, the Mall and all avenues funneling into it were packed with humanity. There was a ceaseless pushing, shoving, elbowing for better view. Each time a new VIP had arrived with police or military escort, those who lost their favored positions in making way fought to regain them. Most had got some sleep, since the night before last had been all waking, but many had needed the fortification of alcohol to keep the little burner stoves of their souls alight. The crowd more nearly resembled the peak hour of an Irish clambake than a solemn reception of the first visitors to Earth from another world.
The landing area itself was a huge, slightly irregular rectangle, roped off with movable standards and chains. It stretched eastward from near the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The huge statue of Lincoln looked down on the scene, and the face seemed even sadder than usual at the sight.
Globe-helmeted Space Cadets were drawn in parallel ranks just outside the roped area. They stood at parade rest, but the polished tubes of their ray guns were thrust outward toward the pressing crowd, silently warning the people not to come any closer unless they wanted to be paralyzed or disintegrated.
I looked at my wrist watch. Another minute had passed. The count-down seemed to stretch outward to infinity.
"Maybe the Spacemen will understand,” Sara said, as if to comfort me.
"I've been thinking,” I murmured. “I'm prett
y sure they understand more about us than I'm proud of."
Perhaps it was my roving eye, I really don't hold with the superstition that we can sense when we are being stared at, but, just the same, I began to look around to see if I could spot that penetrating stare at me once more. I found it.
An enormously fat man was standing with a group of privileged newsmen over on the far side of the President's stance. There was no doubt about it, he was staring directly at me, as if trying to read down into the depths of my soul. It was my first glimpse of Harvey Strickland, although, then, I didn't know who he was. I was that ignorant of what really went on behind the scenes of democratic government.
"What time is it now?” Sara was asking.
"Six more minutes,” I answered. The sweep hand of my watch assured me it really was running.
I looked away from Strickland—let him stare—and around the area again. The white marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial were lined with television cameras. More cameras peeked out from the observation windows atop the lofty Washington Monument. They were equipped with the latest lenses to present every detail of the landing in stark close-up, and no doubt the latest vibratory ears to record distant words spoken.
Beyond the official party, reporters with portable units threaded through the teeming crowd, picking up a babble of inane comment. One Washington matron, introduced as a social leader and etiquette arbiter, giggled into the microphone.
"Now remember, all you deah, deah people—if our visitors should be green spi—well, just a wee, wee bit different from us—let's pretend not to notice anything wrong with them—shall we? They can't help how they look, you know. We must remember to be tolerant. Just can't afford to be provincial at a time like this. Now can we?"
Her voice was blotted out by a huckster who had managed, somehow, to get up toward the front of the commoner crowd.
"Space helmets! Space helmets! Get your soovineer space helmets! Only fi’ dollars while they last. Get ‘em while they last, folks."
"It's three minutes, now,” I said to Sara. “And still they're not in sight."
"They'll come,” she said. “They're good. They wouldn't hurt us by promising to come, and then not do it."
"Yeah,” I said dryly. “They're the good ones. I'll bet they wear white hats."
"Sh-h,” she whispered. “I understand how you feel, but other people mightn't."
"I don't know how I feel, myself,” I said. “So how could you? I just have a terrible dread that this has all been one gigantic hoax, right from the beginning. And if it has been..."
The murmur from the crowd drowned out a sentence I didn't know how to finish. First a whisper, then a sudden roar, like fire bursting out of control.
"There it is! There it is!"
Automobile horns began to blare across the city. Sirens swelled the volume of sound until ears were deafened. From somewhere out of sight, the Army cut loose with a twenty-four-gun salute. The Marine Corps Band struck up its marching song. The Space Cadets began stamping their feet in their famous drill march called Climbing to the Stars, which didn't really go anywhere.
I found the globe at last. It seemed to be coming directly out of the sun. Only by closing my eyes to slits could I follow its downward plunge.
And it was coming at unbelievable speed, a daredevil speed straight down at us—a foolhardy stunt speed; a teen-age hot-rodder, manic speed; a show-off speed. Now that its angle was no longer against the sun, I could see its sapphire blue with the radiant star of light gleaming brighter than the sun's rays.
There was a stir in the crowd, that frozen moment before panic. Then, just at the instant when panic might indeed send us all crushing outward into the crowd crushing inward, the globe checked its hurtling descent, its flamboyant stupidity—and settled to the Mall as gently as a fallen leaf.
That impulse which had started up from our assembled guts as a scream of terror changed to a deep and satisfying sigh of awe and wonder.
As the globe settled, touched lightly against the pavement, it spiraled slowly until it presented the thin-line rectangle of a closed exit hatch to face the Presidential Party. That group breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently these visitors, whatever they might be like, had enough sense to know who was important. Apparently it wouldn't start out with a faux pas, at least. Apparently the coming could be photographed and presented to the world as it actually happened, instead of being rerun and faked for public consumption at a later time.
I watched, hardly breathing.
A curved gangway materialized out of the side of the ship and dropped into position—gracefully, noiselessly.
The crowd, too, seemed to hold its breath. A long stillness of frozen motion. Only the cameramen seemed to make small movements as they huddled, crouched, aimed their lenses, and waited.
The exit hatch rolled back, and now we could see a blue light glowing softly from the interior of the spaceship.
A soft rustle as the crowd seemed to lean forward.
Then the first Spaceman appeared.
He was human, tall, almost six-four, and built like a brick—and perfectly proportioned, beautifully muscled in all the right places. He was handsome with rugged masculinity. He was resplendent in platinum white uniform. Four circles of ebony braid decorated his tunic sleeves. On his left breast were row upon row of gleaming decorations. His shoulder insignia sparkled like diamonds in the morning sunlight. His white military cap, deep-visored, was set slightly to one side of his head. On the visor was a radiant star in white gold, set in coruscating fire of a circle of diamonds.
The crowd remained hushed.
Over all the vast assembly there was no sound. Then the faint rustle of stretching brassières as the ladies began to lift their mammary appendages into more prominent view.
Far back, from a vantage point where they could get a preview look at their customers, the call girls grimaced cynically and gave up anticipation. There'd be no customers for them, not when there was such obviously free and palpitating competition getting ready to start operations.
As the first Spaceman stepped down the gangplank, his stride a free and easy thing of strength, his eyes swept the crowd.
Was it imagination that they hesitated a moment on mine?
His eyes swept on around, and then his aquiline, perfectly chiseled features broke into a broad, toothy grin.
Signal for pandemonium. Caught breath, en masse, was let forth in a gusty roar. Voices broke loose in a cackle of relief. Women began to weep, and scream with fandom adulation. Men hammered their hats into shapeless balls of felt. One small boy, obviously coached, threw a grubby handful of sticky, damp confetti; and in wild hysteria the people began to throw everything loose they had toward the landing field; watches, purses, tie clips, hats. Most of it landed on the heads of others, slipped down, and was trampled underfoot—but never mind.
I stood immobile, expressionless. I think I was the only one not shouting and screaming. Even the President was waving his top hat in the air and shouting what he remembered from a college sports yell.
The eyes of the grinning Spaceman came back to me, caught me standing immobile. His expression did not change, but his eyes seemed to question.
"Aren't I doing it right?” he seemed to ask.
But it was too fleeting for me to know. It had all happened during his first two steps down the gangplank.
His two steps ahead, and then, behind him, from the hatch, stepped two more Spacemen, and then two more. They were all dressed the same, except the four had only three ebony circles on their sleeves, some fewer decorations across their breasts, and only the star of white gold, without the circle of diamonds, upon their visors.
All were handsome, strong, virile, proud, beautiful.
There would be no need for feeding in the scullery. No need for Junior League and Junior Chamber to go catching flies.
They came all the way down the gangplank in formation. The first Spaceman paused at the bottom, a little shyly, proudly but a li
ttle embarrassed.
But then, instead of stepping forward to the President, he made a sharp left turn, and all five of them marched over and came to a halt directly in front of me!
"Take me to your leader!” he said.
I looked at him. And to this day I don't know whether or not my lip lifted in a sneer. I looked at him, and then I realized that about two billion people were watching this—this charade, this farce. Certainly the eyes of everybody there were staring at us.
I took a deep breath.
"Come with me,” I said, “I will take you to our leader."
I stepped up beside him. The four Star-ship crewmen fell in behind us. As one man, the General Staff from the Pentagon fell in behind them. We marched, with nobody out of step, to where the President was still standing. I halted in front of the President.
"This is our leader,” I said to the Starman. “Mr. President,” I said, “may I present the men who have come from the stars."
At a prod from the House and Senate leaders, the President took a step forward, doffed his top hat, and smiled his fatuous vote-getting smile.
"Men from the Stars,” he rolled sonorously, “Earth welcomes you. Earth thanks you for defeating our enemy."
It wasn't too bad. Some White House speech writer had had enough sense to keep it simple.
The Spacemen listened, their heads bowed modestly, their shoulders square and erect. The first Spaceman took one pace forward, cleared his throat—and blushed!
The crowd was completely silent again.
"Shucks, Mr. President,” he said in a West Texas drawl, “it wasn't nothin', really. Wasn't nothin’ any red-blooded boy in the Right Thinkin’ Universe wouldn't have done for his friends!"
He broke into his exuberant grin again; that charming, careless, boyish, handsome, irrepressible, spontaneous grin which can be achieved only after hours upon hours of practice before a mirror. “We was just lucky, I guess!"
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was something wrong with my consistency.
