When They Come from Space (21 page)

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."

"You never did believe they were for us,” she said.

"Nor against us, either,” I answered. “Why should they be? How long is the human race going on believing it is something so damned special that the universe and everything in it has to be arranged to suit man's convenience?"

"Maybe you're right,” she said. “What I came in to tell you is that there's a Mr. Harvey Strickland and his secretary waiting in my office to see you. I don't know how they got past all the security checks, but they're here."

"It's taken him longer to get around to me than I'd expected,” I said. “Maybe he's been waiting for the right moment."

"He's picked a good one,” she agreed.

She correctly interpreted my nod of assent, and stepped back to open the door. The two men must have been standing there on the other side of it. The fat man's face was already clouding with anger at the lese majesty of keeping him waiting.

"Mr. Strickland, Mr. Miller,” Sara murmured as they came through the door, “Galaxy Admiral Dr. Ralph Kennedy,” she introduced me unnecessarily.

But the introduction did recall to me that I was wearing my new sailor suit, and must conduct myself in keeping with all its glittering brass and braid. I stood up, but did not hold out my hand; nor did Strickland walk over to the desk to hold out his.

"Find this gentleman the widest chair we have, Sara,” I said soberly and in a tone of utmost courtesy.

She had been my secretary for many years. Not one line of her face altered, but I noticed there was a new lightness to her step and less dejection in her shoulders as she stepped over to a huge overstuffed and murmured, “I believe the gentleman will find this comfortable.” Sara was exploding with perfectly concealed laughter. The world had not come to an end, after all; not really.

She touched another chair for Miller, but he ignored her. His face was pale, his breathing harsh, his forehead beaded with sweat, his hands at his side were trembling. His eyes were riveted on Strickland, and Strickland alone. Neither the chair, nor the room, nor the rest of us existed for him. He remained standing, a little to the side, a little behind his boss, as a good organization man must.

When Strickland had wheezed and eased himself into the depths of the chair, I sat down too, and folded my hands on top of the desk. Sara was looking at me inquiringly.

"I doubt that the true record would ever find its way into the popular press or on TV channels, Sara,” I said dryly. “But stay and take notes, anyway."

Strickland's head jerked at that. He looked at me piercingly from out the rolls of fat around his eyes, and the slow grin appeared on his face.

"This is going to be a pleasure,” he rumbled. “Another young squirt who thinks he's lord of the Earth."

"I've managed somehow to keep my head up, and my backbone straight,” I said modestly. I deliberately looked at Miller, and felt my words penetrate that rapt preoccupation. His own head seemed to come up a trifle, his own back seemed to straighten. His right hand started to raise, then lowered again.

"I don't know why you've endured the nuisance of coming here,” I said to Strickland. I was using moderate tones, words slowly spaced. I knew this man for what he was; I'd been around Washington long enough now and enough people had become sufficiently confident of me to talk to me. I'd met other men like him, congressmen and senators who believed their districts and their states to be their own private hunting grounds, and the people in them their political serfs and game. Most of these had no other motive except self-preservation; the corrupting years had given them assurance that they were of superior clay, their behavior simply to see that none challenged that truth. Mr. Harvey Strickland was driven by compulsions running deeper than Lord of the Manor keeping his serfs under control.

"You already know what you're going to report out of this meeting,” I continued. “You're looking for a patsy, and you've found one. You know, as well as I, that I have no power and no influence with the Starmen, whatever. If you've got any sense at all, and you've got plenty, you know that they've been fiddling around with the environment of this life form they've discovered; and what I might think about it makes no more difference to them than what some germ thinks about the chemical changes some biologist makes in the culture medium on a smear slide."

His grin grew wider. It was my only answer.

"The mob is going to be howling for blood,” I said. “They're always ready to blame somebody, and you'll get your kicks out of giving them somebody. It would never occur to you to use your power and your influence to build men, to build intelligence, willingness to think, willingness to shoulder responsibility for their own mistakes, to help them grow up. Because if they did that, you might not be such a hot specimen. And that's the realization you can never face."

He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"I'll bet you were the most popular man on the campus,” he said, between high, wheezing gasps.

That was one thing he shouldn't have said. Miller jerked like a marionette on agitated strings. His right hand swept up under his unbuttoned jacket; he pulled out the small gun; he pumped shots at the body of the huge man; one, two, three, four, five, six.

There was the thud of each, the flinching of the flesh, the slight sway to one side at the force of repeated impact—and the high, wheezing roar of laughter increased.

Miller's eyes widened, his jaw dropped. Now he was trembling violently. He stared at the laughing man in horror, the full surge of his belief in Strickland's invincibility returned. His knees crumpled. He sank to the floor there in the middle of the office. He cradled his head in his arms braced by his knees, and sobbed in loud, racking coughs.

I had half risen, bracing my hands on desk top. Sara was sitting still and frozen. I could understand; I too was frozen in that crouch before a leap around the desk to stop him. Strickland was calmly unbuttoning his shirt, and searching in the mesh of his bulletproof vest for the slugs of lead. As he found one, he would lift it between thumb and forefinger, hold it up as one looks at a pebble specimen, then lay it carefully on the smoking stand at the side of his chair. He was collecting a little pile of them. I had no doubt he would find them useful in the future.

I settled back down in my chair and began to breathe again. I did not punch any of the buttons under the front rim on my desk top. There was no emergency. And I doubted that the spat, spat, spat of the gun had been heard outside the office. Oddly, I heard myself still talking in measured tones, and this time to Miller huddled there on the floor.