The Puppet Masters (14 page)

Still, we could get there, if there were a reason for it. We would burn out their nest!

Finally he got up to go. He had limped almost to the door when I stopped him again. “Dad—”

I had not called him that in years. He turned and his face held a surprised and defenseless expression. “Yes, son?”

“Why did you and mother name me ‘Elihu’?”

“Eh? Why, it seemed the thing to do at the time. It was your maternal grandfather’s name.”

“Oh. Not enough reason. I’d say.”

“Perhaps not.” He turned again and again I stopped him.

“Dad—what sort of a person was my mother?”

“Your mother? I don’t exactly know how to tell you. Well—she was a great deal like Mary. Yes, sir, a great deal like her.” He turned and stumped out without giving me any further chance to talk.

I turned my face to the wall. After a while I steadied down.

T
his
is a personal account of my angle of view on events known to everybody. I’m not writing history. For one thing, I don’t have the broad viewpoint.

Maybe I should have been sweating about the fate of the world when I was actually stewing about my own affairs. Maybe. But I never heard of a man with a blighty wound caring too much about how the battle turned out.

Anyhow, there did not seem much to worry about. I knew that the President had been saved under circumstances which would open up anybody’s eyes, even a politician’s, and that was, as I saw it, the last real hurdle. The slugs—the titans, that is—were dependent on secrecy; once out in the open they could not possibly hold out against the massed strength of the United States. They had no powers except those they borrowed from their slaves, as I knew better than anybody.

Now we could clean up their beachhead here; then we could go after them where they lived. But planning interplanetary expeditions was hardly my job. I knew as much about that subject as I knew about Egyptian art.

When the doctor released me I went looking for Mary. I still had nothing but the Old Man’s word for it, but I had more than a suspicion that I had made a big hairy thing of myself. I did not expect her to be glad to see me, but I had to speak my piece.

You would think that a tall, handsome redhead would be as easy to find as flat ground in Kansas. She would have been had she been a member of the in staff, but she was a field agent. Field agents come and go and the resident personnel are encouraged to mind their own business. Doris had not seen her again—so she said—and was annoyed that I should want to find her.

The personnel office gave me the bland brush off. I was not inquiring officially, I did not know the agent’s name, and just who did I think I was, anyway? They referred me to Operations, meaning the Old Man. That did not suit me.

I had no more luck and met with even more suspicion when I tried the door tally; I began to feel like a spy in my own section.

I went to the bio lab, could not find its chief, and talked to an assistant. He did not know anything about a girl in connection with Project Interview; the subject had been a man—he knew; he had seen the stereo. I told him to take a close look at me. He did and said, “Oh, were you that guy? Pal, you sure took a beating.” He went back to scratching himself and shuffling reports.

I left without saying thank you and went to the Old Man’s office. There seemed to be no choice.

There was a new face at Miss Haines’s desk. I never saw Miss Haines again after the night I got taken. Nor did I ask what had become of her; I did not want to know. The new secretary passed in my I.D. code and, for a wonder, the Old Man was in and would see me.

“What do you want?” he said grumpily.

I said, “Thought you might have some work for me,” which was not at all what I intended to say.

“Matter of fact, I was just fixing to send for you. You’ve loafed long enough.” He barked something at his desk phone, stood up and said, “Come!”

I felt suddenly at peace, and followed him. “Cosmetics?” I asked.

“Your own ugly face will do. We’re headed for Washington.” Nevertheless we did stop in Cosmetics, but only for street clothes. I drew a gun—my own had gone where the woodbine twineth—and had my phone checked.

The door guard made us bare our backs before he would let us approach and check out. Then we tucked our shirts in and went on up, coming out in the lower levels of New Philadelphia, the first I had known as to the location of the Section’s new base. “I take it this burg is clean?” I said to the Old Man.

“If you do, you are rusty in the head,” he answered. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

There was no opportunity for more questions. The presence of so many fully clothed humans bothered me; I found myself drawing away from people and watching for round shoulders. Getting into a crowded elevator to go up to the launching platform seemed downright reckless. When we were in our car and the controls set, I said so. “What in the devil do the authorities in that dump think they are doing? I could swear that at least one cop we passed was wearing a hump.”

“Possibly. Even probably.”

“Well, for crying in church! What goes on? I thought you had this job taped and that we were fighting back on all fronts.”

“We’re trying to. What would you suggest we do about it?”

“Why, it’s obvious—even if it were freezing cold, we ought not to see a back covered up anywhere, not until we know they are all dead.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then—Look, the President knows the score, doesn’t he? I understand that—”

“He knows it.”

“What’s he waiting for? For the whole country to be taken over? He should declare martial law and get action. You told him, a long time ago.”

“So I did.” The Old Man stared down at the countryside. “Son, are you under the impression that the President runs the country?”

“Of course not. But he is the only man who can act.”

“Mmmm—They sometimes call Premier Tsvetkov ‘the Prisoner of the Kremlin’. True or not, the President is the prisoner of Congress.”

“You mean Congress
hasn’t acted
?”

“I have spent my time the past several days—ever since we stopped the attempt on the President—trying to help the President convince them. Ever been worked over by a congressional committee, son?”

I tried to figure it out. Here we sat, as stupid as dodoes walking up a gangplank to be slugged—yes, and
homo sapiens
would be as extinct as the dodo if we did not move. Presently the Old Man said, “It’s time you learned the political facts of life. Congresses have refused to act in the face of dangers more obvious than this one. This one isn’t obvious, not until a man has had it in his lap, the way we have. The evidence is slim and hard to believe.”

“But how about the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury? They can’t ignore that.”

“Can’t they? The Assistant Secretary had one snatched off his back, right in the East Wing, and we killed two of his Secret Service guards. And now the honorable gent is in Walter Reed with a nervous breakdown and can’t recall what happened. The Treasury Department gave out that an attempt to assassinate the President had been foiled—true, but not the way they meant it.”

“And the President held still for that?”

“His advisers told him to wait until he can get congressional support. His majority is uncertain at best—and there are stalwart statesmen in both houses who want his head on a platter. Party politics is a rough game.”

“Good Lord, partisanship doesn’t figure in a case like this!”

The Old Man cocked an eyebrow. “You think not, eh?”

I finally managed to ask him the question I had come into his office to ask: where was Mary?

“Odd question from you,” he grunted. I let it ride; he went on, “Where she should be. Guarding the President.”

We went first to a room where a joint special committee was going over evidence. It was a closed session but the Old Man had passes. When we got there they were running stereos; we slipped into seats and watched.

The films were of my anthropoid friend. Napoleon—the ape himself, shots of him with the titan on his back, then close-ups of the titan. It made me sick to see it. One parasite looks like another; but I knew which one this was and I was deeply glad it was dead.

The ape gave way to me myself. I saw myself being clamped into the chair. I hate to admit how I looked; real funk is not pretty. A voice off screen told what was going on.

I saw them lift the titan off the ape and onto my own bare back. Then I fainted in the picture—and almost fainted again. I won’t describe it and it upsets me to tell about it. I saw myself writhing under the shocks given the titan—and I writhed again. At one point I tore my right hand free of the clamps, something I had not known, but which explained why my wrist was still not healed.

And I saw the thing
die
. That was worth sitting through the rest.

The film ended and the chairman said, “Well, gentlemen?”

“Mr. Chairman!”

“The gentleman from Indiana is recognized.”

“Speaking without prejudice to the issue, I must say that I have seen better trick photography from Hollywood.” They tittered and someone called out, “Hear! Hear!” I knew the ball game was gone.

The head of our bio lab testified, then I found myself called to the stand. I gave my name, address, and occupation, then perfunctorily was asked a number of questions, about my experiences under the titans. The questions were read from a sheet and the chairman obviously was not familiar with them.

The thing that got me was that they did not
want
to hear. Two of them were reading newspapers.

There were only two questions from the floor. One senator said to me, “Mr. Nivens—your name
is
Nivens?”

I agreed that it was. “Mr. Nivens,” he went on, “you say that you are an investigator?”

“Yes.”

“F.B.I., no doubt?”

“No, my chief reports directly to the President.”

The senator smiled. “
Just
as I thought. Now Mr. Nivens, you say you are an investigator—but as a matter of fact you are an actor, are you not?” He seemed to be consulting notes.

I tried to tell too much truth. I wanted to say that I had once acted one season of summer stock but that I was, nevertheless, a real, live, sure-enough investigator. I got no chance. “That will
do
, Mr. Nivens. Thank you.”

The other question was put to me by an elderly senator whose name I should have known. He wanted to know my views on using tax money to arm other countries—and he used the question to express his own views. My views on that subject are cloudy but it did not matter, as I did not get to express them. The next thing I knew the clerk was saying, “Stand down, Mr. Nivens.”

I sat tight. “Look here,” I said, “all of you. It’s evident that you don’t believe me and think this is a put-up job. Well, for the love of heaven, bring in a lie detector! Or use the sleep test. This hearing is a joke.”

The chairman banged his gavel. “Stand down, Mr. Nivens.”

I stood.

The Old Man had told me that the purpose of the meeting was to report out a joint resolution declaring total emergency and vesting war powers in the President. The chairman asked if they were ready to consider the resolution. One of the newspaper readers looked up long enough to say, “Mr. Chairman, I call for clearing the committee room.”

So we were ejected. I said to the Old Man, “It looks bad to this boy.”

“Forget it,” he said. “The President knew this gambit had failed when he heard the names of the committee.”

“Where does that leave us? Do we wait for the slugs to take over Congress, too?”

“The President goes right ahead with a message to Congress and a request for full powers.”

“Will he get them?”

The Old Man screwed up his face. “Frankly, I don’t think he stands a chance.”

The joint session was secret, of course, but we were present—direct orders of the President, probably. The Old Man and I were on that little balcony business back of the Speaker’s rostrum. They opened it with full rigamarole and then went through the ceremony of appointing two members from each house to notify the President.

I suppose he was right outside for he came in at once, escorted by the delegation. His guards were with him—but they were all our men.

Mary was with him, too. Somebody set up a folding chair for her, right by the President. She fiddled with a notebook and handed papers to him, pretending to be a secretary. But the disguise ended there; she had it turned on full blast and looked like Cleopatra on a warm night—and as out of place as a bed in church. I could feel them stir; she got as much attention as the President did.

Even the President noticed it. You could see that he wished that he had left her at home, but it was too late to do anything about it without greater embarrassment.

You can bet I noticed her. I caught her eye—and she gave me a long, slow, sweet smile. I grinned like a collie pup until the Old Man dug me in the ribs. Then I settled back and tried to behave but I was happy.

The President made a reasoned explanation of the situation, why we knew it to be so and what had to be done. It was as straightforward and rational as an engineering report, and about as moving. He simply stated facts. He put aside his notes at the end. “This is such a strange and terrible emergency, so totally beyond any previous experience, that I must ask very broad powers to cope with it. In some areas, martial law must be declared. Grave invasions of civil guarantees will be necessary, for a time. The right of free movement must be abridged. The right to be secure from arbitrary search and seizure must give way to the right of safety for everyone. Because any citizen, no matter how respected or how loyal, may be the unwilling servant of these secret enemies, all citizens must face some loss of civil rights and personal dignities until this plague is killed.

“With utmost reluctance, I ask that you authorize these necessary steps.” With that he sat down.

You can feel a crowd. They were made uneasy, but he did not carry them. The president of the Senate took the gavel and looked at the Senate majority leader; it had been programmed for him to propose the emergency resolution.