Earth Has Been Found (15 page)

Tatyana toyed nervously with a ring and waited for Mark to speak.

Freedman pushed his glasses up on his head and pinched his nose. “That’s a very ingenious answer, Frank. I don’t know a damned thing about the fourth dimension, but the rest fits better than most ideas.”

“Glad I came along, doctor. I’ve spent whole nights trying to come up with something better.” He lit another cigar, then remembered. “Aw, doc — I’m sorry! I interrupted you. You were saying the parent had capabilities ours hasn’t?”

“Yes,” said Freedman. “Ours has no blasting equipment, and even more significant, no sex organs.” He added cautiously, “No identified sex organs, that is.”

Arcasso looked at the statement from several angles before replying. “Well, that has to be a comfort — doesn’t it? But isn’t that new to earth? I mean you can have a neutered man or cat, but
someone
has to cut his balls off.” He remembered Tatyana. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She placed a hand on his, shaking it gently, looking at him with amusement. “Frank — I’ve heard about balls.”

Mark regarded them thoughtfully. “Sex is the missing link here,” he said ambiguously, pushing the bottle towards Tatyana, who was looking somewhat longer at Frank Arcasso than was strictly necessary. “Nature has tried everything, but at some stage, sex has to be in there in some form. And that’s what I’m really afraid of — with no sex capability in our specimen, plus that lack of blasting equipment, I fear we’re only looking at one stage of Xeno’s development. If it follows the insect pattern of egg, larva, pupa, and adult, then what we have is the larval form. Sex seldom appears until the final, adult stage.”

Arcasso stared again at the enlarged photograph. “Jesus! You think that’s the second stage. What’ll the adult look like?”

Mark gave an exaggerated shrug.

“Jesus!” repeated Arcasso, turning to Tatyana. “What d’you think?”

“My view is worthless. If Mark says so, that is enough for me.” She downed her drink in one gulp and banged the glass down, her manner suddenly different. Lighting another black cigarette, she eyed both men with an openly calculating expression. “Mark, here we are all friends. Officially” — she tapped the Order of Lenin on her breast — “I came for this talk, but … ” She shook her head as she refilled her glass.

Freedman could tell she was struggling with something.

“Of course, I’m pleased to see you, Tatyana,” he said, “but I had been wondering why you came.” He tapped the file before him. “You could have worked all this out.”

She gave him a swift glance. “Yes.” She tapped her glass. “Don’t think it is this — but it helps.” She paused again, smiling faintly. “Mark, Frank, six months ago I was a good Communist, a dedicated party member, certain of where we were going, confident of the soundness of Marxist-Leninist principles.” She drained her glass and stared at it pensively.

Arcasso shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Don’t hurry me, Frank. I’m on a lonely and dangerous road” — her voice increased in intensity — “a road the party teaches me does not exist! I cannot talk about it with anyone — even now there are only seven of us in ICARUS, all staunch party members. I am not in on the discussions. I only report and answer questions. But I can see in my comrades’ faces that they, too, have those same questions which cannot be asked.”

Freedman and Arcasso exchanged glances, both trying to understand her problem.

“Until your photographs arrived, we ignored the wider implications of ICARUS. Until that moment no real evidence of extraterrestrial life existed. Now it does.

“No longer can we talk about ‘power storms.’ ” She spat the term out contemptuously. “Incredibly, the planes were lost in time and space. That was bad enough — but now, Xeno!” Her haunted eyes stared at Freedman. “Never mind what Xeno is to us — what is it to whatever exists out
there
?”

Freedman broke the strained silence, speaking softly. “Who knows — who
can
know? In our human arrogance we immediately think this thing comes straight from God — ”

“But God does not exist!” cried Tatyana desperately. “For us he
cannot
exist!”

“Let me finish,” Freedman cut in sharply. “To me, it’s plain that somewhere in time and space another world — call it what you like — exists. Clearly, Xeno is not God, for it is a parasite and must live on something else. It does not follow that Xeno’s host is God — in fact the argument is unsatisfying. By definition, God must be perfect, and by human standard cannot possibly be infested with vermin.” His voice sank. “But there may be one or a hundred stages before one reaches that perfection.”

“Mark,” said Arcasso, not looking at Tatyana, “I’ve given a lot of time to this. We’re working with mighty little evidence — ”

Freedman nodded. “Sure — but even a reasonably intelligent person could work out the existence of aircraft from an airline ticket.”

“Right.” Frank smiled at Tatyana, trying to ease her tension. “So you figure — and I’ve gotten that far myself — that there’s something up there?”

Mark shrugged helplessly. “Could be Xeno’s host is a cosmic version of John the Baptist, or Francis of Assisi. Xeno may live off a saint — or maybe the saint’s dog.”

Tatyana burst out. “But this is madness! This is the late twentieth century! God does not exist!”

“Call it what you like. It, Them, God, or whatever,” said Frank stolidly, “but something out there supports Xeno. And that something has powers we can only guess at. From where I stand, that something looks very much like God. It may not be the sort of God we’re used to contemplating, but it’s
there
! If you deny that something’s existence, then you, lady, and your comrades, have got problems!”

XXV.

By Western standards the conference room bordered on the archaic. Deep, claret-colored brocade lined the walls, enlivened by ornate gilded mirrors, spotty with age. Doors, windows, and baseboards were white, the carpet gold and cream; the curtains matched the brocade. The two pictures were on opposing walls: Karl Marx stared at Lenin, who was too busy orating to look back.

From across the center table, covered with a deep red chenille cloth, Tatyana looked at the two most powerful men in her vast country: the president and the premier — also general secretary of the Communist Party. Although her expression remained impassive, her heart beat that much faster. The president, formal and polite, smiled and offered her a cigarette.

She nodded her thanks, taking in the two men, both clad in dark blue suits and white shirts. On the president’s left lapel were three small medals; the premier had two. Tatyana drew comfort from her own Order of Lenin. It had been awarded to her for her work and was proof of her loyalty as a good party member and patriot.

She launched into her report, hesitantly at first, but gaining confidence as she progressed. The men sat quite still, listening intently, showing no emotion. When her factual account ended, they asked the predictable questions regarding the nature of the insect. Both men were interested, but not, it seemed, to the degree she had expected. She replied in the same matter-of-fact manner, waiting for the bigger, more important questions.

As she answered, she felt the pressure growing within her; she fought a mad impulse to break out of the confines their manner imposed. But no — these were top party members, heirs to the portraits on the wall.

Finally the inevitable question. “Comrade Marinskaya,” asked the Russian premier, “what are your own thoughts on the origins of Xeno?”

“Comrade President,” she began, her heart pounding, “that is difficult for me to answer. Rightly, our ICARUS security is very tight; there are only seven or eight who know the secret. I am your only medical member — and I became involved because this was thought to be a problem in my field, cytology. It is not. My qualifications for ICARUS/Xeno are not good.”

The general secretary frowned. She was not answering the question.

She read his mind. “I must explain,” she said, glancing at him, “for you to understand. I have been your medical representative with the Americans. Forced by events, they have seven or eight specialists; also this Dr. Freedman, who has a considerable knowledge of natural history, especially of insects and arthropods.”

She was speaking faster, the words tumbling out, desperate to finish before they interrupted.

“No doubt they could answer your question. I cannot. Theirs is a much wider approach which transcends my biomedical background, which goes back to more philosophical, elemental questions.”

“Comrade Doctor,” said the president sternly, “are you sure you want to continue this line?”

She hesitated, then, “Yes! For the good of us all — yes!” Both men frowned at her. Undaunted, she turned her attention to her document wallet. “I will show you.” She produced two full-plate color enlargements, passing them across the table. She tapped the photograph before the general secretary, noting his tremor of disgust.

“Xeno.” She spoke coldly, reciting facts. “Born of a man, aged sixty-eight. The dissection of this specimen revealed a brain greatly superior to any earthly insect. Exact comparison is not possible, but it may be as intelligent as the brain of a dog.”

Thinking she had veered from her earlier approach, the president sounded less frosty. “Well, that is not much. And the Americans think some of these creatures have survived?”

“Yes. Freedman has no doubts at all, thinking it will survive because of its intelligence, speed, and adaptability. He feels it may even have adapted in some ways since it arrived. That is incredible, but adaptation has to be a matter of degree; even Xeno cannot become something totally different in one generation in a new environment.”

“You have already said that!” the premier said sharply.

She nodded, a tremulous gesture of defiance. “Yes. It is part of the vital, elemental question. Even allowing for some adaptation, one is forced to the conclusion that in its other world it parasitized a life form not unlike ours.”

“Pure supposition!” the president snapped.

“The Americans don’t think so, Comrade President. This is a complex creature, with complex needs. Clearly those needs are met by man, therefore Xeno’s normal host must have similar characteristics — and that is only a beginning.” She spoke slowly. “The Americans believe that out of our space and time there are Beings vastly superior to us — how else could they break through barriers we did not even know existed? They have the ability to pluck aircraft from our skies — and enough consideration to return them. The Americans think Xeno is an accident — that it is a tiny parasite on the body of one of these Beings, even as we have parasites on and in us. The physical size of the Beings the Americans infer from die effect Xeno has on us. For humans it can be a life-or-death situation. If the accidental theory is correct, then — Xeno is no more troublesome to these Beings than — ” she hesitated, then pressed on boldly — “than the seventy or eighty different sorts of life in your mouth, Comrade President, right now!”

“I am amazed,” the general secretary spoke with deliberation, “that you, Comrade Doctor, should repeat these fairy tales! You sound like an old peasant woman! You seriously say the Americans
believe
in a race of superhuman giants?”

Tatyana nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Total, absolute rubbish!”

“Comrade President,” she said doggedly, “that is the American view.”

“And you, Tatyana Ivanovna.” The general secretary gave her one more chance. “Do you subscribe to this belief?” His tone was reasonable, his voice soft, but the warning was plain.

Ever since leaving Freedman she had dreaded this moment, unsure how she would face it. She felt as if she were two separate persons, one sitting back horrified at what the other said.

“Comrades! All my life I have worked for Mother Russia and the party!” She placed one hand on her Order of Lenin. “I am no dissident. I know the future is ours. But I also know it is no service to our cause to blindly follow an incorrect path.” She could not turn back now. “Because it was thought Lysenko’s theories were in accordance with party doctrine, he was believed: The damage that did to Soviet science took years to repair! Truth is absolute; it cannot be bent to meet doctrine. To do so is to be a traitor to party and state.”

“In other words,” said the general secretary idly, “you agree with the Americans.”

“What else can we believe? General Lebedev’s power storm cannot be true.” She appealed again to the president. “What can I believe?”

“This is pure speculation, creating a new world from a single insect!” The president paused. Tatyana did not have the nerve to contradict him, but her expression left him in little doubt of her true feelings.

“The Americans” — contempt showed in his voice — “are inventing another world, peopled by superhuman giants! A cosmic Disneyland. Really, Tatyana Ivanovna, how can a woman of science like yourself believe this fantasy? What do these superhumans want with our aircraft — do they play with them or what? And why do they return them? For a race as intelligent as your American friends would have us believe, it seems to me to be a pointless pastime.” He smiled thinly, but getting no response from Tatyana, his tone hardened. “Admittedly, these Events are inexplicable so far, but the American answer is not intellectually satisfying to me, or,” he added pointedly, “to any good Communist.”

*

After the meeting, she wandered aimlessly, her mind in chaos. Outside the Kremlin, instead of heading northeast, across Red Square for the metro and her flat in Sokolniki, she walked south, past the barbaric splendors of St. Basil’s Cathedral, finding herself at last beside the Moscow River, staring blindly at the turbid, muddy water.

Whatever the leaders might say, the American theory struck her as both plausible and practical. Their total rejection of the U.S. hypothesis staggered her — particularly as no alternative solution was offered. Worse still, her intuition told her that the president had been less than honest. He had denied the idea not because he didn’t believe it, but because he was afraid to believe it. Lysenko’s genetics had fitted party dogma. Hard, practical results had proved him wrong, but the party had stuck by its favorite, long after the scientific world had rejected him. Not that the party loved Lysenko. But the invalidation of his theories inevitably hurt the party.

Across the river in Gorky Park the leaves were falling, a chill warning of the approach of the dreaded Russian winter. She turned away, feeling suddenly ill.

*

In North America Fall had come, too. The riot of color in the Northeastern States gave way to bare branches, whose decaying leaves had carpeted the ground.

But this year was different. Beneath the warm protective covering of the leaves lay the Xenos, making the magical change from larva to pupa.

No human found one, but birds and small animals noted them. They were slightly iridescent and irregular in shape, yet no more bizarre than the pupae of a moth. Still, some inner sense caused all earthly life to instinctively withdraw.

So, in the gathering strength of a North American winter, the aliens lay unmolested, imperceptibly changing, growing.

In the somewhat milder climate of Louisiana, a few more grew in peace; another lay quiescent beneath a dogwood tree in Georgia. And across the world others were in limbo, in Odessa in the Soviet Ukraine, in India, and in Frankfurt, Germany. But if the Xenos remained hidden, ICARUS did not. What both the Russians and Americans had feared happened, and in circumstances totally beyond their control.

*

London’s Heathrow Airport, one of the busiest in the world, had a feature not found in all airports. Many British children and quite a few adults were addicted to plane-spotting, and the airport authority had thoughtfully provided an observation deck where, for a small fee, the enthusiasts could indulge their sport.

The essential equipment for plane-spotting was a pair of binoculars, a notebook, and pencil. Less vital, but still desirable, was a VHF transistor radio. The devotees would watch and listen to the arrival and departure of planes throughout daylight hours, noting the type of each aircraft, its airline, and its side number. To those not addicted, the pastime seemed pointless. But the enthusiast, often wet and cold, would return home delighted to have spotted a real exotic — a private flying harem with an Arabian registration, or an ancient DC-3 wearing the colors of some minor African state.

Around 11:00 A.M. on a fine mid-September day, the deck was crowded. One deck higher a television camera crew waited for a VIP arrival. The crew boss had his own transistor, and the cameras practiced on incoming aircraft.

Behind the blank tinted windows of the control tower an endless game of three-dimensional chess is played. Information pours in nonstop, from West Drayton — Air Traffic Control for Southern England — from aircraft, and from the airport’s own radar.

At 11:00 A.M. the complex organization ticked over quietly, a Rolls-Royce of air control, with West Drayton watching all planes, no matter how small, from the ground up to forty thousand meters, and out to three-fifty kilometers. Cover was complete, down to anything that moved on the ground, even trucks in the remote service areas.

A GCA — Ground Control Approach — operator relaxed to light a cigarette. His visual display unit told him nothing was scheduled to land on his runway, 28 Left, until 11:04 — a long wait in Heathrow’s scale: of operations. All the same, he watched his radar.

Suddenly he sat bolt-upright, staring in incredulous horror. Well within his radar’s range, perhaps a thousand meters from the runway’s threshold, a green-glowing blob materialized out of nowhere, slowly approaching, left of the runway centerline.

He reacted automatically, one hand pressing the alarm button alerting every position in the control room, the other thumbing his transmitter switch.

“Aircraft on approach-come right!” Urgently he repeated his message. “Come right!”

Whoever the stranger was, the safest action was to bring him in. The operator sweated; the bloke was so damn low.

“Maintain present height!”

He’d brought thousands of planes in; his sixth sense screamed that the plane was in trouble. To order him to climb at that speed could be fatal.

Only seconds had elapsed, but the senior controller, Roger Ford, was peering at the scope over his shoulder. “Christ!”

He too saw the Jumbo taxiing round for takeoff on Runway 28 Right. He knew that nothing he could do in the next ten seconds could alter events. He jumped back to his desk, calling another assistant. “Hold all traffic for 28 Left!” He pressed an emergency call button. “Fire and ambulance — threshold of Runway 28 Left — go!”

The shock waves generated by the green blob spread fast. Orders were issued diverting the incoming line of planes. The ambulance call triggered other alerts: the operating theater, the airport police, the local hospital, and that least publicized part of any airport, the morgue.

The plane did not answer. To the GCA operator the seconds crawled; he could only watch the slow, remorseless approach of the two planes.