The Puppet Masters (37 page)

At fifteen hundred the radar interlock with the altimeter cut in and the nose units fired one at a time. The belt buffeted me across the stomach each time and I finally did throw up. I was thinking that I was saved, that now the ship would level off—though I should have known better. Dad being jammed up against the wheel as he was.

I was still thinking so as we crashed.

I came to by becoming slowly aware of a gently rocking motion. I was annoyed by it, I wanted it to stop; even a slight motion seemed to cause me more pain than I could bear. I managed to get one eye open—the other would not open at all—and looked dully around for the source of my annoyance.

Above me was the floor of the car, but I stared at it for a long time before I placed it as such. By the time I figured out what it was I was somewhat aware of where I was and what had happened. I remembered the dive and the crash—and realized that we must have crashed not into the ground but into some body of water—the Gulf of Mexico—but I did not really care.

With a sudden burst of grief I mourned my father.

The broken belt of my seat was flapping uselessly just above me. My hands were still tied and so were my ankles, and one arm at least seemed to be broken. One eye was stuck shut and it hurt me to breathe; I quit taking stock of my injuries. Dad was no longer plastered against the wheel and that puzzled me. With painful effort I rolled my head over to see the rest of the car with my one good eye. He was lying not far from me, three feet or so, from my head to his. He was bloody and cold and I was sure that he was dead. I think it took me about a half hour to cross that three feet.

I lay face to face with him, almost cheek to cheek. So far as I could tell there was no trace of life, nor, from the odd and twisted way in which he lay, did it seem possible.

“Dad,” I said hoarsely. Then I screamed it. “
Dad
!”

His eyes flickered but did not open. “Hello, son,” he whispered. “Thanks, boy, thanks—” His voice died out.

I wanted to shake him but all I could do was shout. “Dad! Wake up—are you all right?”

He spoke again, as if every word were a painful task. “Your mother—said to tell you…she was—proud of you.” His voice died out again and his breathing was labored in that ominous dry-stick sound.

“Dad,” I sobbed, “don’t die—I can’t get along without you.”

His eyes opened wide. “Yes, you can, son.” He paused and labored, then added, “I’m hurt, boy.” His eyes closed again.

I could not get any more out of him, though I shouted and screamed. Presently I lay my face against his and let my tears mix with the dirt and blood.

A
nd
now to clean up Titan!

Each of us who are going is writing one of these reports, for we know that we may not come back. If not, this is our legacy to free human beings—all that we learned and all that we know of how the titan parasites operate and what must be guarded against. For Kelly was right; there is no getting Humpty-Dumpty back together. In spite of the almost complete success of Schedule Mercy there is no way to be sure that the slugs are all gone. No longer ago than last week it was reported that a bear was shot, up Yukon way, wearing a hump.

The race will have to be always on guard; most especially it will have to be on guard about twenty-five years from now if we don’t come back—but the flying saucers do. We don’t know why the titan monsters follow the twenty-nine year cycle of Saturn’s “year”, but they do. The human race has many cycles which match the Earth year; the reasons may be equally simple for the titans. We hope that they are active only at one period of their “year”; if they are. Operation Vengeance may have easy pickings. Not that we are counting on it. I am going out, heaven help us, as an “applied psychologist (exotic)”, but I am also a combat trooper, as is every one of us, from chaplain to cook. This is for keeps and we intend to show those slugs that they made the mistake of tangling with the toughest, meanest, deadliest, most unrelenting—and ablest—form of life in this section of space, a critter that can be killed but can’t be tamed.

(I have a private hope that we will find some way to save the little elf creatures, the androgynes. We weren’t able to save any of those in the saucer we found near Kansas City when the fighting was over, but that doesn’t prove anything. I think we could get along with the elves. They are probably the real natives of Titan, anyhow; certainly they aren’t related to the slugs.)

Whether we make it, or not, the human race has got to keep up its well-earned reputation for ferocity. If the slugs taught us anything, it was that the price of freedom is the willingness to do sudden battle, anywhere, any time, and with utter recklessness. If we did not learn that, well—“Dinosaurs, move over! We are ready to become extinct.”

For who knows what dirty tricks may be lurking around this universe? The slugs may be simple and open and friendly compared with, let us say, the natives of the planets of Sirius. If this is just the opener, we had better learn from it for the main event. We thought space was empty and that we were automatically the lords of creation—even after we “conquered” space we thought so; Mars was already dead and Venus had not really gotten started. Well, if Man wants to be top dog—or even a respected neighbor—he’ll have to fight for it. Beat the plowshares back into swords; the other was a maiden aunt’s fancy.

Every one of us who is going has been possessed at least once. Only those who have been hag-ridden can know how tricky the slugs are, how constantly one must be on guard—or how deeply one must hate. The trip, they tell me, will take about twelve years, which will give Mary and me time to finish our honeymoon. Oh, yes, Mary is going; most of us are married couples and the single men are balanced by an equal number of single women. Twelve years isn’t a trip; it’s a way of living.

When I told Mary that we were going to Saturn her single comment was, “Yes, dear.”

We’ll have time for two or three kids, too. As Dad says, “The race must go on, even if it doesn’t know where.”

This report is loose-jointed in spots, and I can see that some must be cut and some must be censored before it is transcribed. But I have put everything into it, as I saw it and as I felt it, for war with another race is psychological war, not war of gadgets, and what I thought and what I felt may be more important than what I did.

I am finishing this report in Space Station Beta, from which we will transship to our vessel U.N.S.
Avenger
. I will not have time to make corrections; this will have to go as is, for the historians to have fun with. We said good-by to Dad last night at Pikes Peak Port and left our little girl with him. She did not understand and that was hard. But it was better so—and Mary and I will look into the matter of having another, at once.

When I said good-by Dad corrected me. “So long, you mean. You’ll be back and I intend to hang on, getting crankier and meaner every year, until you do.” I said I hoped so. He nodded. “You’ll make it. You’re too tough and mean to die. I’ve got a lot of confidence in you and the likes of you, son.”

We are about to transship. I feel exhilarated. Puppet masters—the free men are coming to kill you!

Death and Destruction
!

R
OBERT
A
NSON
H
EINLEIN
was born in Butler, Missouri, in 1907. A graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, he was retired, disabled, in 1934. He studied mathematics and physics at the graduate school of the University of California and owned a silver mine before beginning to write science fiction, in 1939. In 1947 his first book of fiction, ROCKET SHIP GALILEO, was published. His novels include DOUBLE STAR (1956), STARSHIP TROOPERS (1959), STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND (1961), and THE MOON IS A HARSH MISTRESS (1966), all winners of the Hugo Award. Heinlein was guest commentator for the Apollo II first lunar landing. In 1975 he received the Grand Master Nebula Award for lifetime achievement. Mr. Heinlein died in 1988.