When They Come from Space

by Mark Clifton

  I should have known better. Past experience with a quarter million individuals should have taught me. I should have known that a man can receive only what his mind has been prepared to receive, that all else is ignored, or interpreted to suit his prior interpretation—that man can only accept change through it being interpreted as no change, or not knowing it is change.

  Apparently I needed a reminder. Sara brought it into my office in the form of sample mail we were receiving—mail addressed to the Starmen, routed through us.

  Our department's mail room had done an excellent job of classifying the letters according to type. There were some forty-six thousand letters and telegrams represented by the following:

  "My corn patch is gittin purty dry. Rain on it. Yrs trule.

  There were only four thousand five hundred antonym letters in this category:

  "Urgent you not let it rain on Ladies Aid picnic for worthy cause."

  A few hundred said something like:

  "Have twenty dollars with bookie on long-shot, Sea War, in the second. 50/50 split with you if you make him win."

  Some six thousand pleaded with them to use brand products in their next personal appearances, or came within the following patterns:

  "Enclosed find eleven genuine simulated gold embossed lifetime passes to any theater showing our pictures. Usual requirement that you give your independent, unbiased opinion that picture is stupendous, colossal, gigantic applies. Lifetime passes absolutely guaranteed good for ninety days. Cancelable without notice."

  "Request you furnish our department-store chain with one gross real live Santa Clauses for coming Christmas season. Must have real ones. Kids are wise to phonies, pull off their beards and kick them in shins for not keeping last year promises. Causes much union grievance. For your information, enclosed is traditional editorial telling why belief in Santa Claus is necessary—and which says nothing at all about how sales would drop off, factories shut down, and newspaper (which carries the editorial) advertising space cut down without said belief. Absolutely necessary our citizens be kept believing there is a Santa Claus. As twig is bent tree will grow. Fight communism. Send us real Santa Clauses. We pay union scale."

  Unfortunately, statistics on the following kind of letter were incomplete, since loyal mail clerks had been tearing them up before it was realized we should keep an impartial check:

  "Toiling masses greet their comrades from space. Party requires you make unmistakable statement against grasping capitalists within next twenty-four hours. No excuses, or you know what."

  But there were one hundred and twenty-four thousand letters of the following kind:

  "Eyes of blue, five-feet two, Bette Lou, and she's pretty too. That's just a little rime the boys made up to teese me with, and I guess it does tell you what I'm like, but it didn't make me stuck up, not a bit. I don't think if a girl is inteligunt and beautiful, crushinglly divistatinglly beautiful she doesn't need to be stuck up. Do You? Anyway Im not, not a bit, stuck up I mean.

  "I feel it is my sacred duty to write you and tell you what the nice girls in my town are saying about you, and everybody will be saying it soon, but everybody, if they arent allready. I guess you know we have been keping pretty close tabes on you fellas, ha! ha!

  "Seriously, we watched you go to bed, and we watched you get up, whenever the TV was working, when you was here. I guess you know everybody in the world is keping watch out for you, so if youd done what regular fellas do, I guess we'd know about it. Like I said, people are begining to talk.

  "Youve been here more than a week now, and none of you fellas have gone to bed with any girls, if you know what I mean. So I guess you know from that what people must be saying about you, if you know what I mean. I dont beleev it, what theyre saying about you, if you know what I mean. Anyway, even if you were, well if you found out what it was like to have a real feminin girl, if you know what I mean, you wouldn't be any more.

  "Anyway that is why I think it is my scared duty. You wouldnt have to marry me afterwards, if you know what I mean, that is, if you didnt want to. But Ill bet youd want to after you found out how much fun you could have with a real feminin nice girl, if you know what I mean. Ha! Ha!

  "I hope I havent been to suttle about what I mean if you know what I mean. But Im a nice girl and nice girls dont come right out and tell men what theyre always thinking about. Theres only one of me and theres five of you fellas, but dont fight. Just draw straws or something. I have got lots of nice girl friends. They are not as cruchinglly beautiful as I am, but they are real feminine girls and All Right, if you know what I mean.

  "Some people are saying you fellas are angles from heaven. If you are angles then thats why you havent gone to bed with any girls because angles arent suppose to know about such things, if you know what I mean. So if you dont take me up on my Supreem Sacrafise I wont believe what people are saying about you not being regular fellas, if you know what I mean. Ill believe its because you are angles and my feelings wont be hurt a bit. Well not much anyhow, because there are plenty of nice boys around here Ill have you know, and there allright too, and I dont have to throw myself at nobody, if you know what I mean.

  "So as they say if you want it come get it or Ill throw it in the garbage, if you know what I mean. But if youre angles then you dont know what I mean. Cruchinglly, devistatinglly yours,"

  I looked up from reading the last letter. I looked a question at Sara, who was sitting across the desk from me. I asked a question with my eyes.

  "Yes,” she answered. “I've read them. Quite a few more like them, just to see if they were representative, as the mail room claims."

  I wondered if my face showed the same inner sickness as hers.

  "People,” I commented unhappily.

  "People,” she agreed.

  "Whether it's some kind of science we don't understand, yet, or miracles we'll never understand, it doesn't change a thing,” I said. “I thought it was really going to bollox up the works, but it doesn't. Before the Starmen, people looked to science for miracles. They didn't know how the scientist got them, they didn't want to know, they didn't listen when he tried to tell them. All they wanted was the miracle, not a lot of instruction which would be work to understand. Well, now they've got the miracles from another source, without any instruction on how to go and do likewise. But there's no real difference, no real change from then to now."

  "I guess people will go right on being people,” she agreed, as if that would comfort me.

  Apparently Shirley, and Dr. Gerald Gaffee, and Dr. Kibbie had also been busy, behind the scenes, working for my comfort.

  The three of them walked into the office, at that moment, without appointment. The two men had broad, happy grins for me, and file folders of papers in their right hands. Shirley's beautiful, old homely face was wreathed in misty smiles, and she was looking at me as a mother might look at a favored son. She also carried a file folder in her right hand, and a big dry-goods box in under her left arm. I wondered fleetingly if her motherly instincts had gone so far as to start buying suits for me.

  As ranking seniority in my department, she stepped forward first.

  "Galaxy Admiral Kennedy,” she said solemnly. “I present you with the official document making you Galaxy Admiral.” She flipped the file folder open, laid it on my desk, and, surely enough, there were the words, the signatures, the seal. “Those publicity-seeking—uh—people down in Space Navy wanted to be in on the presentation, but I convinced them you'd want it kept in the family, first, before all the hoopla of television, newsreel, and the rest of it. I hope that was right, Galaxy Admiral, sir."

  "That was exactly right, Shirley,” I managed to gasp. “For my part, I could skip the hoopla entirely."

  "Well, sir, we mustn't go too far,” she admonished.

  Then she laid the big dry-goods box on the desk top and whisked off the lid. I saw the midnight blue of textile within the box, and a gleam of brass and braid. Much brass and braid.

  "Your
uniform,” she said proudly. “I thought you'd want it right away."

  I looked down at my white shirt, which had been fresh this morning when I put it on, but wasn't now. I looked down at my faded slacks, which, aeons ago, had been pressed.

  "I suppose that's part of the penalty of being a Galaxy Admiral,” I said, and already felt a twinge of nostalgia for the good old civilian days. “I hope it fits."

  "Oh, it will fit,” she answered confidently. “I made N-462 give me your exact measurements."

  I opened my eyes wide at that calm statement.

  "You knew?” I asked.

  "Sure, I knew he was a cop,” she said. “But it was better to have him where I could keep an eye on him than to let him run loose. In his own way, he was doing his job. He had all your measurements down to the last quarter inch."

  "I hope not all of them, Shirley,” I said solemnly.

  The old gal blushed, and for the first time since I'd known her, she broke into a rumbling roar of laughter.

  "You kill me,” she chuckled. “You always have. Right from that first morning."

  Dr. Gerald Gaffee, standing behind her, and next in line, gave a loud “Harrumph!"

  Shirley blushed again and stiffened.

  "Excuse me, sir,” she stammered, “I didn't mean to get familiar."

  "Stay familiar, Shirley,” I said softly. “I like it that way better."

  "Yes, sir,” she said, too formally, but the motherly pride was still in her eyes. I supposed I'd have to settle for that.

  Now Gerald stepped forward. He too flipped open a file folder and laid it on the desk.

  "Dr. Ralph Kennedy,” he said solemnly. “Here is your Ph.D. in extraterrestrial psychology."

  I looked at the name of the famous university, and the signatures at the bottom of the scroll. It was no purchased quickie that I need ever be ashamed of.

  "How is this possible?” I asked. “It doesn't merely say ‘Honorary.’”

  "In view of your contact with the extraterrestrials,” he murmured. “The only Terrestrial who has had private conferences with the extraterrestrials..."

  "I'm glad,” I said simply. “There've been some things I've wanted to tell you. And now I can, now that I'm in the union."

  He also blushed.

  Dr. Kibbie then stepped forward and laid his gift on the desk.

  "Another two billion,” he crowed happily. “A special committee, with special war emergency powers..."

  "Good God,” I said. “I haven't finished spending the last two billion, yet."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mr. Harvey Strickland was unhappy.

  He sat in his purple robe in his Washington office, and pawed sourly at the late-edition newspapers on his desk. The editors were following his instructions to the letter. There were paeans of praise, gratitude for all this foreign aid and good deeds from Youth Peace Corpsmen (which would enrich the fortunate and impoverish the unfortunate even more), the clear interpretation of the divine nature of the Starmen, the bead strings of blessings, the exhortations to his millions of readers, who bought their daily ration of ready cooked opinion from him each day, to get down on their knees and grovel in the dust.

  But it was not enough.

  Everybody was being too damn glad about it all.

  There wasn't ... there wasn't anybody to hate. That was the missing element. No villain anywhere.

  It was all right to crusade for something, provided it is a milksop something, safe and popular, like home and flag and mother; but nothing really starts to happen until you come out against something. And that's got to be a personalized something, somebody you can get your teeth into. You can be against sin, but there's no real fun in it until you've gone out and located yourself some sinners.

  And what's the point of being for something, unless you can grab up the torch and the knife and the bullwhip to use on somebody who isn't also for it? The way you bring about the disintegration of a community or a culture is to turn loose the self-righteous with no holds barred. But how can you have the full enjoyment of self-righteousness unless there's somebody to persecute?

  What were the lines from that obscure writer of thirty-forty years ago? Oh yes...

  Hide! Hide! Witch!

  The good folk come to burn thee,

  Their keen enjoyment hid beneath

  The gothic mask of duty.

  And there wasn't a goddam witch in sight. But there must be a witch in the underbrush somewhere. There had to be. There was always somebody you could make out a witch. Goddam it, everything was brought up to a peak; the fervor was running in full flood, and not a smell of anybody to pull the bloodhounds baying, to call forth the robes and light the torches.

  Goddam Starrnen were being too impartial with their favors for everybody. That was wrong, all wrong. It wasn't done that way. You always favored somebody at the expense of somebody else. Then to keep the bloodhounds from attacking the favored, you always found a false scent to pull them clear away from the scene. That was the way it was done, the human way.

  You give the goddam humans some witches to burn if you don't want ‘em to notice what's happening.

  There was only one human who had had more than the most casual social contact with the Starmen. And that one was damn near untouchable. He had been made a Galaxy Admiral, and Harvey Strickland hadn't been able to block it. He had been made a Ph.D., and even there the Strickland threats of cutting off all future donations to that university had arrived too late to stall the act. He'd been given another two billion dollars to spend, and the goddam congressmen had just laughed and said, “Well, Harvey, you ought to be able to figure out some way to get your cut of it—as usual.” His mounting fury at one Dr. Ralph Kennedy congested his veins to turn his face purple.

  There ought to be a way. There had to be a way. And what the hell had he been thinking about? Of course there was a way. He was a newspaperman, wasn't he? And wasn't the first thing a cub reporter learned on his first interview the way? You threw away what the guy actually said. You made up the things you wanted him to say, and put them in quotes. You hung these on just enough of the truth to make them believable.

  His tensions relaxed, and he began to smile. No goddam underling could be trusted with this one. He would go to see Galaxy Admiral Dr. Ralph Kennedy, in person. So let the stupe deny, scream denial. Who'd print it? Who ever does? He snapped his fingers to bring Miller to him, to fetch his clothes, to help him dress, to accompany him to the Pentagon. In the contortions of dressing, his hand happened to brush against the left side of the loose jacket Miller was wearing today. He touched the gun through the cloth, the gun too amateurishly worn in its shoulder holster.

  He froze for an instant, with his mind racing through the possibilities. He excused himself to go to the bathroom. Miller was not needed in this task. This was a demand he had been saving against the day when Miller might show a reviving spark of pride; this to be the final degradation of the once-proud and haughty most popular man on the campus.

  From a concealed space in back of the medicine cabinet he drew forth an elaborate bulletproof vest. He had no trouble, all by himself, in stripping to the waist, putting on the vest, dressing himself again. With all his mountainous rolls of fat, an added inch of girth would never be noticed. He had no fear for his head. The amateur murderer, handling a gun for the first time, always shot at the biggest part of the target.

  The things you learn in the newspaper game! You never know what might come in handy.

  His high, wheezing laughter was still wreathing his face in a grin when he came out of the bathroom.

  The smile froze on his face.

  The fax machines were chattering like monkeys gone crazy. Miller had the TV monitor turned on and was staring at it incredulously. But there was no mistaking the news. As fast as one bulletin cleared, another came through.

  "Bulletin ... Santa Fe ... New rivers and lakes in the desert have suddenly disappeared ...
Jet aircraft shot aloft reports entire horizon empty of water ... Other areas confirming entire Southwest desert dried up ... dust storms howling ... early sprouting seeds blackening ... land investors ruined...

  "Wait a minute ... another flash coming in ... the warm air in Canada, Alaska, turned to howling blizzard ... many surveying parties representing land investors believed trapped ... no word yet from Siberia ... no ... here it is ... same thing in Siberia ... Moscow threatens reprisals against United States for harboring Starmen...

  "Another bulletin ... Rio ... the Amazon jungle has closed in again ... no more clearings and highways..."

  One after another the bulletins poured in, the cancellations of the good deeds of Youth Peace Corpsmen—true human behavior, once the enthusiasm had worn thin, the publicity had been milked, let loose, let the whole thing disintegrate.

  He wondered if the Starmen were all that human; that they could shrug it off with, “Well, we came and showed you the benefits you could have. It's not our fault if you failed to pick up and maintain what we gave you. We did our part."

  A slow smile began to stretch his lips.

  What the hell. It didn't matter what the Starmen were thinking or doing now. Once the shock of losing all these goodies had worn off, the whole human race would be screaming for blood, somebody's blood, anybody's blood. The whole human race, which he so despised...

  And he had the power of opinion-making in his hand....

  He looked at Miller, standing there in front of him, meek, licked, powerless, smoldering down underneath perhaps, but helpless. Planning violent revenge for what had been done to him, but doomed to failure. The whole human race was a Miller, his Miller.

  The grin broadened into a grimace of pure glee.

  * * * *

  The cancellation bulletins were still pouring in over my own TV monitor when Sara came in from her buffer office. Her eyes were wide, her face was pale, her lips were taut.

  "What does it mean, Ralph?” she asked in a low voice.

  I shrugged helplessly.

  "I think the biologists have finished running their experiment with the culture,” I said with a wry smile. “I think they're getting ready to go home, and are tidying up the lab to leave it in the same state they found it."