Invaders From Earth Page 2

  said the opening title, against a pulsing background of red, white, and blue. Credit-lines followed. And then, quite suddenly, Kennedy found himself staring at an alien landscape, oddly quiet, oddly disturbing.

  Bleak whiteness confronted him: the whiteness of an almost endless snowfield, beneath a pale blue sky. Jagged mountain ranges, rock-bare and snow-topped, loomed in the distance. Clouds of gray-green gas swirled past the eye of the camera.

  “This is the surface of Ganymede,” came the attractively resonant voice of Brewster. “As you can see, frozen ammonia-methane snow covers the ground in most areas. Ganymede, of course, is virtually planetary in size—its diameter is thirty-two hundred miles, which is slightly more than that of Mercury. We found the gravitation to be fairly close to that of Earth, incidentally. Ganymede’s a heavy-core planet, probably torn out of Jupiter’s heart at the time the system was formed.”

  As he spoke, the camera’s eye moved on, and Kennedy’s with it: on to examine the fine striations in an outcropping of rock, on to peer down at a tiny, determined lichen clinging to the side of an upthrust tongue of basalt.

  Suddenly the camera whirled dizzyingly upward for a look at the sky. Kennedy was jolted. Jupiter filled a vast segment of the sky, a great heavy ball hanging like a brooding giant just above.

  “Ganymede was about six hundred and fifty thousand miles distant from Jupiter at the time of this film’s making,” Brewster said dryly. “At this distance Jupiter takes up quite a chunk of the heavens.”

  Kennedy stared uneasily at the monstrous cloud-wrapped planet, whose velvety pearl-gray surface gave hint of unimaginable turbulence deep beneath the outer band of atmosphere. To his relief, the camera finally left the huge world and returned to the Ganymedean landscape.

  For perhaps five minutes more the film drifted on over the lonely, bleak land. Then eight spacesuit-clad figures appeared, faces nearly hidden behind their breathing masks, bodies shrouded by the metal-impregnated suits.

  “The members of the expedition,” Brewster commented.

  The camera panned to a spaceship, standing slim and tall on a bare patch of rock. The ship bore dark green numerals painted on its shining silver flank.

  “The expeditionary ship,” Brewster said.

  After a survey of the outer skin of the ship from various angles, and a few more glimpses of the spacesuit-clad crewmen, the camera shifted to pick up a strangely cold-looking pool of greasy liquid.

  “One of the occasional Ganymedean paraffin lakes,” said Brewster.

  The camera skirted the pool’s edge, doubled back through a snowfield, and centered suddenly on four weird figures—four creatures vaguely man-shaped, their faces noseless, their eyes hooded by folds of flesh. They were pale white in color, hairless, virtually naked except for some sort of woven cloth girdle round their middles. They were staring sadly at the camera, faces devoid of any understandable expressions.

  “These are the natives of Ganymede,” Brewster remarked blandly.

  Brewster had certainly underplayed it. It took three or four seconds for the effect of his quiet words to make itself known, and then Kennedy felt as if he’d been bashed in the stomach by a battering ram. He had been watching the film intently enough, but superficially—observing it in a detached manner, since the mere sight of alien landscapes was not enough to involve him deeply. But now, suddenly, to have alien life sprung on him. . . .

  The Venus expedition had been a dismal failure, mechanical difficulties making it nearly impossible for the explorers to cope with the formaldehyde soup that was Venus’ atmosphere. But in their short stay they had definitely verified the fact that there was no animal life on the second planet.

  Mars, too, had proved barren, despite the hopes of many. A few lichens, a few podded weeds that survived in the near vacuum, but nothing else. Humanity, and Ted Kennedy, had begun to decide that man was alone in the Solar System, and possibly in the universe.

  And now, suddenly—

  “The Ganymedeans are a primitive people living in sprawling villages of a few thousand inhabitants each,” Brewster said, in a standard travelogue manner. “They seem to cover the entire land mass of Ganymede, which is distributed over three continents. We estimated their numbers at about twenty-five million.”

  Moistening his lips, Kennedy stared at the four alien beings against the alien backdrop of methane snow. He still had no idea what possible tie-in Dinoli had with all this, but he was waiting.

  “During our stay,” Brewster went on, “we learned the rudiments of their language. It’s a fairly simple agglutinating tongue, and our linguists are at work on it now. We discovered that the Ganymedeans have a working clan system, with sharp tribal rivalries, and also that they show neither any particular fear or any liking for us. The expeditionary geologist’s report shows that Ganymede is exceptionally rich in radioactive minerals. Thank you.”

  The film came abruptly to its end with the last word of Brewster’s sentence. The light went on, dazzling Kennedy’s eyes; the secretaries appeared from somewhere, deopaqued the big window, and wheeled the projector out. The screen vanished into its recess in the ceiling.

  In less than a minute the room was as it had been before. But none of its occupants were quite the same.

  Dinoli leaned forward, his eyes glittering brightly. “I think you begin to see the magnitude of what’s unfolding before us, men.”

  Kennedy squirmed uneasily in his contour chair. He saw some of the implications—particularly in that punchline Brewster had tacked on to his little travelogue. The expeditionary geologist’s report shows that Ganymede is exceptionally rich in radioactive minerals.

  The way he had said it as a non sequitur made the fact seem almost irrelevant. Kennedy had a good ear for seeming irrelevancies; ultimately, they often turned out to be of critical importance in the case.

  Dinoli glanced at the taller and fatter of the two liaison men and said, “Now, Executive Hubbel, will you fill my men in on some of the implications to be drawn from this situation on Ganymede?”

  Hubbel coughed ostentatiously. “You’ve seen the existence of alien life on this planet-sized moon. You’ve seen also that Ganymede holds exceptional mineral wealth, which our Corporation proposes to mine in the name of the public good by virtue of our U.N. charter agreement. We’ve gone to considerable expense developing and outfitting ships to explore space, and naturally we’re counting on recouping our expenditures on Ganymede. Partridge?”

  The other blinked like a sleepy cougar and said smoothly, “We feel there may be certain difficulties in obtaining mining rights from the Ganymedeans.”

  Suddenly Kennedy began to understand. He felt a muscle in his right calf start to quiver.

  Dinoli grinned triumphantly. “Here’s where we come in, boys. There might be conflict—conflict with the obstinate Ganymedeans. Some people might call that a war of aggression. Actually, of course, it’s sheer necessity. We need what Ganymede has; the Corporation has sunk billions into opening up space for humanity. You understand this. You’re all clever men. That’s why you work here instead of for a second-rate outfit.”

  Partridge said, “Naturally, the people might not sympathize with our plea of necessity. They might think we were imperialistic.”

  “This impression would of course have to be counteracted by careful public relations management,” Hubbel said thoughtfully, putting a cap on the whole thing.

  “And we’ve been chosen to handle it,” finished Dinoli.

  That was it. That was all there was to it.

  Kennedy kept his face blank of emotional reaction. The “agency mask,” Marge called it privately. What Marge didn’t know was that frequently the agency mask hid an equal blankness of inner feeling. Kennedy suspended judgment, waiting to hear more.

  “We plan an intensive world-wide blanketing,” Dinoli said. “These gentlemen will be working closely with us at all times. Specific target dates have already been set up. There’s a date on which first knowledge of t
he existence of life on Ganymede will be given to the public—almost immediately, I can tell you—and there’s a terminal date on which the occupation force will have to be put down to assist the Corporation. Between those dates, it’ll be our responsibility to handle the campaign.” Dinoli leaned back, grinning expansively. “Our constitution provides that no more than four men may be second-level at any one time in our organization. However, we’re a flexible group. For the duration of this campaign, those of you who are third-level will draw second-level salaries, without formal advancement in rank. You second-level boys will get salary boosts as well. As for you, Dave Spalding—you’ll draw third-level pay, while officially remaining a fourth-level man. Whether these boosts become permanent or not depends largely on the success of the campaign.” The old man’s eyes traveled down the rows. “Is everything perfectly clear?”

  Thirteen affirmative nods.

  “Well, then. You four”—he indicated the second-level men—“will serve as general coordinators for the project. The actual intensive work will be carried out by the third-level people, plus you, Spalding.”

  Kennedy timidly lifted one hand.

  “Yes, Theodore?”

  “Sir, what about the projects we’re currently working on? Are they to be carried on as well?”

  Dinoli smiled glacially. “This contract takes precedence over any others we may have signed. Your second-level supervisor will discuss with you the advisability of turning your current project over to a fourth-level man.”

  “I see,” Kennedy said. That was the end of Federated Bauxite, then.

  “If everything’s understood, men, we can call it a day.” Dinoli rose. “We’ll work as a tight little unit on this. And we’ll prove to the Corporation that they haven’t made a mistake in choosing S and D. Won’t we, men?”

  Thirteen nods.

  “Well.” The single word was a clearcut dismissal.

  They filed out slowly. Kennedy left quietly, deep in what to an observer would have seemed to be thought, but which was actually the opposite—mere mindless intense concentration that allowed him to avoid considering a serious problem of ethics. There was time for that later;

  What will Marge say? he wondered. He thought of the simple blank-faced creatures from the film, and of Marge’s boundless sympathy for the downtrodden unfortunates of the world. What will Marge say? he asked himself worriedly.

  3

  The warm, cheerful, expensive odor of real food filtered through the Kennedy household. Marge bustled about the kitchen, setting the table, while the autochef prepared the meal. They were having shoulder steak, mashed potatoes, garden peas. Nothing on the menu was synthetic; with so many S and D men living clustered in this one Connecticut township, Kennedy could never allow himself the risk of having someone discover he used synthetics. Personally he saw little difference in taste, and an enormous one in price—but prestige was important too, and had to be considered. Third-level men never ate synthetics.

  “Supper’s almost ready,” Marge called. She was a brisk, efficient housekeeper.

  Kennedy drained the remainder of his pre-dinner cocktail, scratched the cat behind the ears, and flipped a switch on the master control panel of the sound system, cutting out the three living-room speakers and switching the output to the dining area. The playful flutes of Bach’s Second Brandenburg came piping out of the other room, accompanied by Marge’s lilting, somewhat off-pitch humming.

  Kennedy entered the bathroom and jammed his hands into the handkleen socket. The day’s grime peeled away. He caught a glimpse of his face, pale, too thin, wrinkles already beginning to form around the eyes even at thirty-two. He wondered if he had always looked this bad; probably not, he admitted.

  The handkleen’s gentle purr died away. He shook his hands in the unbreakable drying gesture, pointless but habitual, and crossed over into the dining area. Marge was bringing the plates to the table.

  “It’s Spalding I don’t understand,” Kennedy said, abruptly reopening a conversation of an hour before. “Here he is, a fourth-level man jerked up to third just to work on this project, and he’s sour as hell on it.”

  “Maybe Dave isn’t interested in the project.”

  “Maybe—huh? What does that have to do with it? Any PR man worth his pay can damn well get interested in any sort of project. You think I cared about the good folk of Nebraska when I took on that Bauxite deal?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. And yet within two weeks,” Kennedy said, “I was so wrapped up in that project, so identified with it, that it actually hurt to be pulled off it and put onto this. Can you understand that?”

  Marge smiled sweetly. “I think I can grasp the general picture. But you say Dave’s not anxious to work on the new contract? There must be some good reason for that.”

  “It’s the same reason that keeps him down in fourth-level, when he should be in third.” Kennedy attacked his meat fiercely, and after a moment went on. “He doesn’t have the right spirit. Talent, yes—but that intangible extra, no. And don’t think Dinoli doesn’t know that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dave was put on this thing just as a test— either he delivers the goods now, with third-level responsibilities, or out he goes.”

  “I’ve always thought Dave was too sensitive for PR work,” Marge said.

  “Implying I’m not a sensitive man?”

  She shrugged. “Your potatoes are getting cold, darling. Of course you’re sensitive, but in a different way. You know?”

  “No. But drop the subject.” Kennedy had never appreciated his wife’s fondness for Spalding, and regularly tried to avoid the necessity of inviting him to their house.

  “I suppose Alf Haugen’s wild with enthusiasm over the new contract,” Marge said.

  “Alf’s a company-first man. If they gave him the job of selling humanity on turning cannibal, he’d take it on if they boosted his salary. Naturally he’s enthusiastic. He’ll do anything Dinoli tells him to do, provided there’s a buck in it for him.”

  Bach ended. The robot arms of the sound system gently lifted the record from the turntable and replaced it with an early Beethoven quartet. Kennedy was old-fashioned that way; he still bought discs, rather than tapes.

  “You haven’t told me what this contract’s about yet, you know,” Marge said quietly.

  Kennedy paused, fork in hand. “It’s classified. Top confidential.”

  She pouted. “You’ve done classified work before. Have I ever let it spill?”

  “This is different,” he said slowly. “This absolutely must not leak. I can’t, Marge.”

  They were both silent for a moment, Kennedy knowing that the real reason why he refused to tell her was not that it was classified—he had never kept secrets from her before—but that she would think the project was ugly and brutal. He had always tried to shield her from brutality, even though he knew in some respects she was tougher and more resilient than he was.

  “All right,” Marge said. “Don’t tell me. Marie Haugen will. That blabbermouth can’t keep quiet for—”

  “Marie won’t know. Alf won’t tell her.” Even as he said it, he knew how foolish the words sounded. The food in his stomach felt as if it were curdling. He shook his head bitterly. “Marge, can’t you take a straight no?”

  “If I have to,” she said, sighing. She began to clear away the dishes. Kennedy could tell from the sudden angularity of her motions that she was angry.

  He shut his eyes for a moment, thinking, looking for the strength to tell her. They had been married eight years —were married on the evening of his college graduation, in 2036. He held a Bachelor of Communications from Northwestern, and, finishing first in his graduating class, had eagerly accepted the bid to come East and work for Steward and Dinoli as a fifth-level man.

  Eight years, and he had worked up to third-level, with second perhaps just a few years away. He had tried to be perfectly frank with Marge on all matters, and she loved and respected him for it. But now . . .

&n
bsp; He was damned either way. There’d be a wedge between them if he refused to tell her, and perhaps a wider gulf if he did. He began to sweat.

  “Come here, Marge,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Sit down. I’ll tell you about this new contract.”

  She sat opposite him., watching him with her clear, dark-blue eyes that had never needed optical correction of any kind. She looked very grave . . . like a serious eight-year-old, he thought suddenly.

  “Well?”

  “There’s been a space expedition to Ganymede. That’s one of the moons of Jupiter, you know. It’s almost big enough to be a planet itself. Well, they’ve found people on Ganymede—intelligent people.”

  “How wonderful! What are they like? Have you seen pictures yet? Are they—”

  “Wait a second,” Kennedy said, his voice dull. “They also found radioactive ores there. The place is literally packed with minerals that Earth needs desperately. Only the natives refuse to permit any mining operations whatsoever. Some tribal nonsense, I guess. So the Corporation may have some trouble. If there’s armed resistance they may have to ask the U.N. Army to intervene in their behalf. It’s a matter of the public good; they’re not using their minerals, and our entire economy is based on them. So S and D was called in to handle a publicity campaign. On the surface, you see, it might look pretty nasty—that the Corporation was greedily aggressive, attacking primitive creatures, and so forth. Naturally we can’t have that kind of publicity. So here’s where we come in, to smooth everything over, to make it clear that it’s a matter of simple need, and—”

  He stopped suddenly, catching the expression that flew momentarily across Marge’s face. And was that the edge of a tear in the corner of her eye?

  “You dreamed about this last night,” she said in a soft, barely audible voice. “About war. You even dreamed we started it. Funny, I never believed in supernatural things like this. Until now.”

  “Marge!”