As the soldier of fortune looked down on it from the dizzy height of two feet, he felt his arms being very firmly seized.
“What do we do about this?” demanded a voice, thin and querulous. “I never saw one this size.”
“Take him to the Central Committee, stupid,” snapped another. Battle felt his guns being hoisted from their holsters and snickered quietly. They didn’t know—
Yes they did. A blindfold was whipped about his eyes and his pockets and person were given a thorough going-over. They even took the fulminate of mercury that he kept behind his molars.
“Now what?” asked the first voice. Battle could picture its owner gingerly handling the arsenal that he habitually carried with him.
“Now,” said the second voice, “now freedom slowly broadens down.” Clunk! Battle felt something—with his last fighting vestige of consciousness he realized that it was one of his own gun-butts—contact his head, then went down for the count.
THE NEXT THING he knew a dulcet voice was cooing at him. The Lieutenant had never heard a dulcet voice before, he decided. There had been, during his hitch with the Foreign Legion, one Messoua whose voice he now immediately classified as a sort of hoarse cackle. The blonde Hedvig, Norwegian spy he had encountered in service with Los Invincibles de Bolivia had seemed at the time capable of a dulcet coo; Battle reallocated the Norse girl’s tones as somewhere between a rasp and a metallic gurgle.
The voice cooed at him: “Get up, stupid. You’re conscious.”
He opened his eyes and looked for the voice as he struggled to his feet. As he found the source of the coo he fell right flat on his back again. J.C. Battle, soldier-of-fortune extraordinary, highest-priced insurrectionaire in the world, had seen many women in the course of his life. Many women had looked on him and found him good, and he had followed the lead with persistence and ingenuity. His rep as a Lothario stretched over most of the Earth’s surface. Yet never, he swore fervently to himself, never had he seen anything to match this little one with the unfriendly stare.
She was somewhat shorter than the Lieutenant and her coloring was the palest, most delicate shade of apple-green imaginable. Her eyes were emerald and her hair was a glorious lushness like the hue of a high-priced golf-club’s prize putting-green on a Summer morning. And she was staring at him angrily, tapping one tiny foot.
“Excuse me, madame,” said Battle as he rose with a new self-possession in his bearing. He noted that she was wearing what seemed to be a neat little paper frock of shell pink. “Excuse me—I had no notion that it was a lady whom I was keeping waiting.”
“Indeed,” said the lady coldly. “We’ll dispense with introductions, whoever you are. Just tell your story. Are you a renegade?” She frowned. “No, you couldn’t be that. Begin talking.”
Battle bowed. “My card,” he said, tendering it. “I presume you to be in a position of authority over the—?” He looked around and saw that he was in a room of wood, quite unfurnished.
“Oh, sit down if you wish,” snapped the woman. She folded herself up on the floor and scrutinized the card.
“What I am doesn’t concern you,” she said broodingly. “But since you seem to know something about our plans, know that I am the supreme commander of the—”
She made a curious, clicking noise. “That’s the name of my people. You can call us the Invaders.”
“I shall,” began Battle. “To begin at the beginning, it is known that your—Invaders—plan to take over this world of ours. I congratulate you on your location of your people in a mohair sofa; it is the most ingenious place of concealment imaginable. However, so that the sofa will not be fumigated, you must perform operations at long-range—posthypnotic suggestion—I imagine—on the minds of the servants at the Billionaire’s Club. Can you explain to me why you cannot perform these operations on the club-members themselves?”
“Very simple,” said the woman sternly, with the ghost of a smile. “Since all the billionaire members are self-made men they insist that even the lowest bus-boy have advanced college degrees and be Phi Beta Kappas. This betokens a certain type of academic mind which is very easy to hypnotize. But even if we worked in twenty-four hour relays on “Old Jay” we couldn’t put a dent in him. The psychic insensitivity of a billionaire is staggering.
“And,’ she added, looking at Battle through narrowed eyes, “there was one member who noticed that the bus-boys never fumigated the sofa. We tried to work on him while he slept, but he fought us back. He even subconsciously acquired knowledge of our plans. Thought he’d dreamed it and forgot most of the details.”
Battle sighed. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Cromleigh was his name, and he tipped me off. Where are you Invaders from?”
“None of your business,” she tartly retorted. “And where, precisely, do you come from?”
“This Cromleigh,” said Battle, “was—and is—no fool. He went to a psychologist friend and had his mind probed. The result was a complete outline of your civilization and plans—including that ingenious device of yours, the minimifyer. He had one built in his lab and paid me very highly to go into it. Then I was dropped by him personally into this sofa with a pair of tweezers.”
“How much does he know?” snapped the woman.
“Not much. Only what one of your more feeble-minded citizens let him know. He doesn’t know the final invasion plans and he doesn’t know the time-schedule—if there is any as yet.”
“There isn’t,” she said with furrowed brow. “And if there were, you imbecile monsters would never learn it from us.” Suddenly she blazed at him: “Why must you die the hard way? Why don’t you make room for the super-race while you have the chance? But no! We’d never be able to live in peace with you—you—cretins!”
Then her lip trembled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be harsh—but there are so few of us and so many of you—” The dam broke, and the little lady dissolved in a flood of tears.
Battle leaped into the breech like a veteran He scored 99.9807 on the firing range consistently and that was pretty good, but when it came to comforting weeping female soldiers-of-fortune Battle really shone.
SOME MINUTES LATER they were chummily propped up against the wall of the wooden room. Her weeps over, the little lady—who had identified herself as Miss Aktying click! Byam—began:
“We come—you could have guessed this from our size—from an asteroid near Jupiter. Don’t ask me why my people are so much like yours except for size; after all, why shouldn’t they be? Spores of life, you know.
“Our space-ship’s somewhere in your New Jersey; we landed there two years ago and sized the situation up. We’d been driven from our own planet by nasty creatures from Ceres who had the damnedest war-machines you ever saw. Flame-guns, disintegrator rays—and they’re going to mop up the universe when they get around to it. By your standards they were three inches tall; to us they were twenty-foot horrors.
“We sent out a few agents who learned the language in two or three days; we could live on the space-ship and keep out of sight. The agents came back to us all steamed up. They’d been riding in coat pockets and things, listening in on private wires. They found out that most of the wealth in the world is concentrated in the Billionaire’s Club, right here where we are. So we moved en masse, all three hundred of us, into this sofa and built our city.
“It isn’t as easy as it sounds, of course. To listen in on a conversation means that you have to weigh yourself down with almost an ounce of equipment for raising the octaves of the voice and scaling it down to fit our ears. But now we have our listening posts and we eavesdrop in relays to every word that’s spoken. If you knew what I know about Atlantis Plastic and Explosive—
“Anyway, Battle; we have our fingers on the economic pulse of the planet. We could release information through dreams and hunches that would wreck the market, as you call it, and create the most staggering panic of all times. Once that happens, Battle . . .”
“Go on,” snapp
ed the Lieutenant.
“Once that happens, Battle,” she said in a small, tense voice, “we turn on a little machine we have and every human being that walks the Earth turns into pocket-fuzz.”
She faced his horrified stare with a pitying smile. “It’s true,” she said. “We can do it. When we’re ready, when we’re convinced that science and research is so disorganized that they can’t possibly do anything about it, we turn on the machine, technically known as a protoplasmo-high carbon proteidic-discellular converter and it happens.”
“Not,” grated Battle, “if I can stop it.”
“That’s the rub, my dear,” she said with a frown. “You can’t. You’re my prisoner.” And she smiled exquisitely, baring apple-green teeth, so that Battle was constrained to agree with the little lady.
“It seems fitting,” he brooded absently. “A super-race indeed is come to humble man.”
“DARLING,” SAID BATTLE, “it’s the strange mixture of ruthlessness and sentimentality that makes your people perpetually amazing to me. It’s a pitched battle in the dark on our part; my people have no notion of what’s going on behind their backs, and you see nothing evil or dark in the situation.”
Busily Miss Aktying click! Byam kissed him and returned to her desk. “My sweet,” she said, “if you trouble your head over our alien morality you’ll never get to the end of it. Enough that you are accepted into our midst as a non-combatant worker and the very special charge of the Expediter-in-Chief—that’s me. Now go away, please. I’ll see you tonight.”
Battle pocketed the seal he had lifted from the desk and blew a kiss at her back as he closed the door behind him.
The week he had been imprisoned had been no great hardship; he had been privileged to roam within the limits of the city and examine the marvelously complicated life these tiny invaders had made for themselves. There had been other privileges as well . . .
The lieutenant, professional and romanticized killer, could not get over the appalling technique of the invaders. It was not inefficient, it was not cold-blooded; somehow to him it was worse. Like all right-minded military men of the old school, he deplored the occasional necessity of spying. What then could he think of a campaign that was spying and nothing else but?
He had been allowed to see—under guard—the wonderful listening posts of the tiny people. From little speakers boomed the voices of “Old Jay” and the other Titans of finance who worked off steam in the smoking room of the Billionaire’s Club. And nobody ever sat on the sofa or moved it; it simply would never occur to a member to do so, and in the minds of the servants there had been built up a myth that it was the very first sofa that the celebrated and deceased founder of the club, Nicholas VanBhoomenbergen, had installed and that it would be a breach of the club’s rules to move it. The fact was that it had been brought in by two men from Airways Express who had had their minds taken over for the nonce by the invaders. A Mrs. Pinsky, for whom it had been originally consigned, never did find out what happened to it.
Battle ascertained by judicious inquiry that the pocket-fuzz machine actually did exist. It had been a swipe from the war-science of the invaders from Ceres.
The thing was broken down at the moment, but when they got it into shape again—!
He had uneasy pictures of a vast number of speculators all waking up with the same hunch on which way the market would jump. All bidding simultaneously for the same securities would make a ticklish situation that could be touched off by judicious inspiration of an investment banker—any investment banker—who could be dreamed into thinking his bank was without assets. Bank closes and banker commits suicide.
Panic on the market; the vast number of speculators find themselves with securities at fantastically high prices and worth fantastically near nothing at all. Vast number of speculators sell out and are ruined, for then three more banks close and three more bankers commit suicide. President declares bank-holiday; the great public withdraws savings as soon as the banks open again, therefore the banks close again. The great public holes up for a long, hard winter. With loose cash lying around crime is on the upswing and martial law is declared, at which Leftist organizations explode and start minor insurrections in industrial cities.
Mexico attacks across the Rio Grande; the invaders from the asteroid had a contingent of expert hypnotists ready to leave for Chihuahua where the southern republic’s army as stationed.
And then the protoplasmo-high carbon proteidic-discellular converter would get turned on. The population of Manhattan would turn into pocket fuzz—or at least separate large-molecule units resembling very closely the stuff you find in pockets or handbags after two or three weeks of use.
Manhattan is fortified by the wee folk from the asteroid who build several more of the flug-machines, aiming them at the other boroughs and moving their twenty-mile field of effectiveness at the rate of a state each day. The North American continent would be clear of any and all protoplasmic life at the end of a week, they estimated.
And the hell of it was that they were right. But Battle was whistling cheerily as he forged a pass with the aid of the seal from his lady’s desk.
HE HAD CREPT out into the open, been perceived by the eagle-eye of old Cromleigh, lifted on a pair of tweezers and whistled into a waiting Rolls.
Once again his natural size in the New Jersey lab he stretched comfortably.
“Thanks for being so prompt,” he yawned. “Thanks a lot. They were coming after me, by the sound of footsteps in the distance.”
“Now you see why I had to be quiet and do this thing on the sly?” demanded the financier. “If I’d told all I know they’d have called me mad and locked me up the way his family treated poor old John Dee. (But don’t let that get out, Lieutenant.) Now tell me what you found there—begin at the beginning. How much do they know about finance and manipulation? Have they got their records in a safe place?”
Battle lit a cigarette; he hadn’t taken any with him for fear of firing the sofa. Luxuriously he drew in a draft of the smoke clear down to his toenails and let it trickle from the corners of his mouth. “One question at a time,” he said.
“And I’ll ask the first few of them. Mr. Cromleigh, why won’t you let me bomb the sofa?”
The old man twisted his hands nervously together. “Because a bomb in the smoking-room would kill Old Jay when he hears about it; the man always goes to Lhasa in Tibet when July Fourth rolls around. He’s been that way since the Wall Street Massacre in ’24 or ’5. Because I’m not cold-blooded. And because, dammit, those little people I saw were cute.”
“Yeah!” agreed Battle reminiscently. “That she was. To begin at the beginning, your dream was substantially correct. They’re little people from an asteroid. They have war-machinery and no hearts whatsoever. They’re listening twenty-four hours a day. Not a word spoken in the room escapes them and it all goes onto records.”
“Good—good God!” whispered Cromleigh, cracking his freckled knuckles. “What that information must be worth!” He rose. “Let’s get back to Manhattan for a drink, Lieutenant,” he said shakily. “And there’s another aspect I want to discuss with you. Your first trip was a sort of foray. It was mostly to convince me that I wasn’t mad. And to size up the ground as well. Now can we discuss planting a permanent spy in the sofa? To keep tabs on them and move only when necessary?”
“Delightful,” said Battle thoughtfully. “I have friends. My own club you probably do not know of, but it is the best of its kind.”
CROMLEIGH, NERVOUSLY tapping his desk with a pencil, was alone in the great New Jersey lab as far as could be seen. Grotesque machinery lined the walls; during the day there would be eight score technicians working, checking and double-checking their results, bringing new honor and glory to the Cromleigh Vacumaxie Sweeper and the rest of the string of electric products. His sugar plants and labs were far away in Pasadena; the Cromleigh Iron Works were going full blast in the ore basin of the continent. He looked like a very worried man.
“Miss Millicent, this is Mr. Cromleigh,” he announced, leading forth from the shadows a tall, crisp woman. When she spoke it was with a faint, Southern drawl:
“Pleased t’ know you. Any frien’ of Lieutenant Battle’s . . .” She trailed back into the darkness and vanished completely.
“Doctor Mogilov, former Professor of Philosophy at the University of Kazan.” A slight, smiling man bowed out from the darkness; he was smooth-shaven and looked very un-Russian. In a pronounced Cambridge dialect he said: “Delighted,” and put one hand on the butt of a revolver slung from his slender waist.
“And Alex Vaughn, Yorkshire born and bred.” The Englishman said thickly, in the peculiar speech that makes the clear-headed, big-boned men of York sound always a little intoxicated: “Ah coom wi’ russi-veh-shins, soor. Lut thawt bay oondair-stud.”
“He says,” interpreted the Lieutenant, “that he comes with reservations; let that be understood. And that completes the present roster of the Sabre Club present in New York.”
“Only three?” complained Cromleigh. “And one a woman? You gave me to understand that they could completely smash the invaders.”
“Yes,” said the Lieutenant, his voice heavy with added meaning. “Any invaders.”
“No doubt—” said Cromleigh. Then some message in Battle’s eyes alarmed him unaccountably; his hand trembled on the desk-top and gripped the edge to steady itself.
“That did it!” snapped Battle. He swung on Ole Cromleigh “How long have we?” he grated, pulling a gun and aiming for the financier’s throat.
In a voice hoarse with hatred Cromleigh yelled: “Just two minutes more, you meddling scum! Then—”
Collected Short Fiction Page 58