Harry Truman uses the spittoon, curse. This thing must come to an end. He picks up the telephone and asks for Barkley; the old gent is in the Senate chambers where if course things have been in recess for three days. “Hold the fort,” he says, “I’m going to go over and talk to them.”
“Talk to who? Barkley says. He is a clean old fellow but not as sharp as he used to be. “The generals? That’s the spirits. Roll right in. Take their bluff. I’m with you all the way, Harry if that’s your decision.”
“Not the generals, “Truman says. “The marsupials.”
“The who?”
“The fellas on the godamned front lawn of the godamned White House!”
There is a thick pause. “Harry,” Barkley says, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Harry. They got spaceships, they probably got weapons. Maybe the telephone?”
“Got to do it in person. That’s why I’m calling you. I just want you to kind of mind the store while I’m over there. If anything happens to me they’ll know who to reach.”
“Anything happens to you?” Barkley’s voice quavers. “Harry, I don’t think that’s such a good thinking. If you want anyone to go over there and talk to them, why not get MacArthur? He’s itching to get back into this.”
“If the press talked to them, I can,” Truman says angrily. “Goddamned MacArthur just wants to be back in the newspapers, get his career together. He’s not getting anything past me. No, Alben, you don’t have to do anything, I’m not asking you to come with me. Just stay where you are and let them know where they can reach you”
“Well,” Barkley says hesitantly, “well, all right, Harry. This is pretty tricky stuff, you know. Those boys are supposed to come from another galaxy; they pack a hell of wallop, maybe.”
“Same galaxy,” Truman says. “Same godamned galaxy.” He hurls down the phone, picks up his suit jacket and walks through the door of his office. Two secret service personnel dozing in straight chairs bolt up. “I’m going to take a little walk over to the White House lawn,” he says. “I’m going to go alone. I don’t want protection.”
“Mr. President — “
“Think this is the only way,” Truman says. He makes a dismissive gesture. “you sit tight.” They subside on their chairs, apparently debating whether Truman has the authority to release them. “Don’t worry about it,” Truman says “there aren’t any Puerto Rican nationalists in those spaceships, that’s for sure.”
He walks down the corridor, nods at the appointments secretary, out the door. Fortunately, he has been casual about his movements over the years that this attracts little attention; even in national crisis they are accustomed to a President who often strolls out for his own newspaper. Across the street he sees the three tall silver ships glinting in the late afternoon sun; shadows of the monument playing over them. There are no signs of activity; sometimes the aliens have come out to sun themselves on the rocket tips, but at the moment, apparently, they are all inside. Truman walks briskly though the gate and across the street. Traffic is sparse; there has been little movement in the capital — in the country itself — in these recent days. The guard at the White House gate comes to attention as Truman approaches, steps towards his. Truman waves him away. “Just going if for a little talk,” he says.
The guard steps to one side. Truman walks to the lawn. He supposes that the aliens landed on the White House lawn because they did not know that the President had moved into Blair House weeks ago while repairs were made on the mansion. This is one of the strongest reasons, Truman supposes, to think that it is not a Russkie move because certainly the Soviets would have known about this. He walks across the grass to the nearest spaceship and gestures vigorously. He knows that the lawn is under constant surveillance; the Joint Chiefs have reported the presence of scanners. “Want to talk to you a little,” Truman shouts. His voice carries easily in the late April afternoon. “Send out your representative.”
A hatch opens and a raccoon’s head peers out. “That’s fine,” Truman says. “Come on down. I just want to talk some.”
A claw emerges from the access, makes gestures at the dead. “All right,” Truman says, “I understand. Get some gear on and then let’s discuss things a little.”
The hatch closes. Truman waits patiently, thinking of his political career. It has been an astonishing journey, and along the line he has certainly angered a good many influential people. Perhaps this is not the Soviets but Republicans; it is the kind of thing that the party of Taft, Stassen, Wilkie and Dewey would try. But then again and very possibly it is not a prank. If only he could have been sure of one thing or the other, he would not be in this position, he reminds himself. It is a very humiliating position, but it is not going to be entertaining much longer.
The hatch opens and a figure clambers out, bulky in gear, weaving on the platform. Truman waves. “Come on down,” he says genially, “stand on the lawn. There no need for me to look up at you like this. You’re always going to be taller than me, but lets’ deal with this face to face.”
The figure seems to shrug, continues on down the platform, walks across the lawn. Inside the helmet he can see the square raccoon’s face, the intelligent eyes. Perhaps it is not a prank after all. “Come on,” Truman says, “come over here.” The figure closes the distance, stands a few feet away. “That’s fine,” Truman says, “isn’t that better now? Now we can talk.”
“You are the President?” The figure says. The voice through the translating equipment is without inflection but not unpleasant “Your are Mr. True Heart?”
“Truman,” he says. “Listen, haven’t these people to whom you’ve been talking gotten my name straight?”
“My apologies, Mr. Truman,” the alien says. “There have been many names and faces. We have wanted to talk to you from the first. Why have you not come before now?”
“Well,” Truman says, “that was not exactly my decision. I should have come from the outset. Look here, says reasonable, “what are you doing, dealing ultimatums to us, threatening our government and way of life if we don’t capitulate to you and so on? It’s ridiculous. That’s not the way we do things in America.”
“We are not threatening,” the alien says, “We are merely distressed at circumstances. Your inhabitants seem unable to control their own lives. So we wish to assume control for your own good. It need only be a temporary measure.”
“Yeah,” Truman says, “yeah, well buddy, that isn’t the way it happens. In a free land you don’t turn over control to anyone else, and you don’t take promises that it will only be a short while. Maybe you’d get a better response from the other side, but that’s not how we operate.”
“We do not wish to deal with the other side. The Russkies you call them? We have heard about them. We do not wish to deal with them but with you.”
“Well, that’s probably to your advantage. If you had been dealing with them instead of us, you probably would have been attacked days ago.”
“To their disadvantage. We are invulnerable.”
“Well, you might well be,” Truman says, “but you haven’t seen our armaments yet.” He makes a deprecatory gesture. “Let’s not talk about armaments, attacks,” he says. “Let’s be reasonable here. What do you want to take over this planet for? We’ve got a pretty decent situation, all things considered. So it can’t be for our own good, and if you want to conquer us, you’d probably find we have more fight than you expect. Why don’t you simply go back to where you came from and check with us in fifty years? You might be surprised how much further along we’ll be.”
“That is not possible. Those are not our orders. We are supposed to achieve a resolution now.”
“Fine,” Truman says, “here your resolution. We appreciate your offer of conquest, but we’re simply not interested. Say that you were turned back with thanks.”
“That will not work.”
“Then say that you were turned back with threats. That should do it. Say that we have weapons for which yo
u never had an accounting, that we’re much more dangerous than you thought we were.”
“Mr. Truman,” the marsupial says, “that is an interesting offer but we have heard it already. Why should we take it from you?”
“Because I’m the President, go, godamnit,” Truman says, “and an offer from the President carries more weight than from anyone else because of the office, the authority. We’re negotiating here. You go back and take your friends home, and I’ll do my best to keep things under control here and prove that we don’t need outside supervision. Next time around, you’ll see that I was right. That’s my bargain. If you really have your best interests at heart, you’ll take it.”
“It is an interesting offer,” the alien says. “It is the first time that we have been made it by someone in your authority. But precisely what guarantees do we have that you are telling the truth and that you are capable of self-governance?”
“You have the word of the President.”
“Mr. Truman, to yourself you are the President but to us you are merely a symbol. In the cosmos you would be surprised of how little importance symbols are.”
“You have my word,” Truman says. “Come back in fifty years and it will be proven. Any difficulties you see will be solved. You will have been saved all the trouble and expense of what would be an ugly fight, let me tell you. We Americans don’t take conquest either.”
The alien pauses; the silence is very much reminiscent of the pauses in his conversation with old Barkley. “You are a courageous man, Mr. Truman,” the marsupial says. “If your word is that strong, if it has the same power as your courage, then it must be taken very seriously. I will confer with my colleagues. Fifty year?”
“Right on the nose,” Truman says. “Fifty years right on the button. You come back and you’ll see.”
“We will give it much consideration,’ the alien says, “and you will know soon of out decision.” I turn and moves back towards the ramp, wafting the faint odor of cinnamon. For the first time Truman thinks that these creatures may indeed be what they represent themselves to be. It is not only the smell but the aspect of their presence; a foreignness which goes far beyond anything he has glimpsed at the United Nations.
“Soon you will know our decision Mr. Truman,” the alien says and mounts the ramp, turns, waves and disappears in the hatchway. There is the sound of clanging steel.
Truman shrugs and walks slowly away from the three ships, first moving backwards so that he can stare at them, then turning and moving briskly over the lawn back towards the gate. To turn your back on an enemy is to show strength; it might also be contempt, but this is a risk that he will have to take. At the gate he nods at the guard and trudges back across the street towards the Blair House. At least I made a decision, he thought. At least I made a clear choice, Now it’s up to them. If they don’t decide to take it … by God, Truman thinks, if they don’t decide to take it, I’ll tell the Joint Chiefs to do what they want to as my last act, and I’ll resign and give this thing to Barkley. Let him run it. At least I’ll be back in Independence before tomorrow is out.
He waves cheerfully to the guard outside Blair House, waves to his appointment secretary and goes back into his office. As he enters he hears for the second time in three days the pounding, the surreal hum, the sound of fires. He looks out the window in time to see the ships, one by one, gracefully ascend.
By God I did it. Harry Truman thinks. All they needed from the first was a stern talking-to.
The image of the fire bloom on the panes of his office. They’ll be back in fifty years, Truman thinks suddenly. That was the agreement, fifty years.
Well, what the hell. In fifty years we’ll have this whole damned place cleaned up, he thinks. Nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about.
“Come on, Alben,” he says in a moment over the phone, “bring over a pint of bourbon and I’ll tell you all about it.” In the background he hears the thin sound of Senate cheering.
Fifty years is no problem at all, thinks Harry Truman.
Quartermain
ALL flesh is as grass: “you know how it will be,” the modal says. “You will wander upon the desert. You will contest with Satan. You will return to Galilee. You will find yourself riding upon an ass. A few small dazzlements, a few larger enchantments, mobs, publicity, betrayal and vengeance. You will be taken to a high place, lots cast over vestments and etc.” Its voice drops to a confidential tone. “It will be extremely painful, Quartermain,” it advises. “These things have a certain cheap, dramatic force but there is no way that you can be properly committed to the extreme and, I might add, embarrassing agonies. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“Of course I want to go through with it,” I say. I should point out that I am at a final briefing, that I have passed the various levels of qualification and that the modal, an intimidating but harmless device, is trying to harass me. “Don’t be concerned,” I say, “I can handle any of this.”
Lights blink across the modal; one gathers that it might shrug if a room-sized cube were capable of gesture. “Very well,” it says, “you will do as you will. I must warn you, Quartermain, this is no easy business. A cheap religious fanaticism will carry you only so far. Wait until they drive in the nails.”
“Wait until you hear my seven last words,” I counter.
“I’m waiting,” the modal says. “I’m waiting and waiting. I suspire in conclave after conclave, interview after interview and, Quartermain. I will be waiting yet. I have seen you come and I have seen you go.”
“Believe this,” I say, “I am different.”
“I have heard that before,” the modal says. “Truly I have heard that before.”
BLESSED ARE THE DEAD: “Your name is Nicholas Quartermain,” Satan says with deadly earnestness. For the purposes of our encounter he has assumed the frame of a youngish woman, rather fetchingly attired in scant clothing and equipped with the postures of seduction. I must admit that I do not find him unattractive although, of course, I am not enticed. “You have come to replicate the apocryphal chronicles of Jesus of Nazareth in the hope that a satisfactory crucifixion and a necessary ascension will grant you credibility as a cult head, but I tell you, Nicholas, you are a fool. Better men than you have fallen on the road to Bethlehem, the very best have cursed their Father on the Cross. No one has emerged from these simulations since they began and you will be no different.” Satan reaches into her low-cut dress, takes out a large, well-formed breast, shows it to me. “Why not stop now, save yourself a lot of trouble and have a good time? Better to fail here than in the court of Pilate and besides, I’m getting so tired of these encounters, these dialogues. Come on be reasonable.”
I stare at the old Tempter with disdain. “Never,” I say, “I cannot be distracted by such cheap devices.”
Satan winks, drops the breast. “Why not be diverted by the fantastic?” She arches a finger; from the dim mist which surrounds us the hundred priests emerge whispering in robes of splendor; great mythic birds enchanting in their plumage and color whirl against the sudden bowl of sky. “You want miracles?” Satan says, “I give you miracles. It surpasses your bread-and-wine tricks any time. You have to understand that you’re dealing with a professional here, Quartermain. Dazzlements are my oldest charm.”
I watch the chanting priests, the wheeling birds. “This is an impressive demonstration, I agree,” I say, “but this is not a matter of display. I am familiar with all of your divertissements.”
Satan shakes her splendid head, makes a moue of discontent. “You dislike enchantment?” she asks. “Very well then, settle for rhetoric.” She makes a gesture of dismissal, the priests and birds reluctantly dissolve and the sky closes in like a grey collar once again. “I can defeat you with rhetoric of the most rigorous sort since I was, as you know and as any study of the proper texts will reveal, His best loved just before the moments of the Fall. I am that part of Him split off to walk up and down upon the earth an
d to and fro upon it, to test those for whom conviction is the highest necessity. In fact,” Satan says, again with that fetching moue, “you might consider me to be His assistant, Quartermain, and what do you say now to a little wrestling? Forty days and forty nights of wrestling? You’ll have a few tales for the boys in the Nazarene, you obsessed little darling!’’
I look upon her and I look upon her and after a long time the knowledge of my resistance seems to settle inside and the slow fire of shame burns through her cheekbones, melting the mask of seduction, but as the birds and the beasts of the empty spaces begin to flutter and congregate once more, I understand that this will not be easy. Thirty-nine nights and thirty-eight days to go. I have instructed myself to keep precise records.
THOU SHALT BRUISE HIS HEAD: One must do something in the twenty-second, tra-la, to keep from being poisoned or going mad; my choice was to qualify for a Cult. Access, however, is controlled tightly, as would be expected in this highly alienated and stratified culture, and the simulations are so difficult that only one out of twenty or so, it is rumored, even qualify. Beyond qualification the chances are uncertain; Satan’s testimony that no one has ever succeeded is — well — Satanic but it cannot be more than one out of a hundred according to the rumors. The only information would be from the cult heads themselves and needless to say they will not talk. The failures will talk and through the Inventories I talked to many of them but the counsel of failure is not to be trusted. “You haven’t a chance, Quartermain,” my Counselor told me. “For one thing the trials are manipulated, and for another you believe in the apocrypha. It is this belief that is going to undo you.” Then she laughed and laughed, mad laughter from the bitch until I fell upon her and drained her dry but as I rose and fell, rose and fell, her hands tearing at my back like prosthetic claws I could see the defeat in her eyes: I was leaving her after the Simulations, regardless of their outcome, and I would be taken from the Complex forever. This could only depress her since we had, as may be obvious, an active relationship. “Oh you fool,” my Counselor screamed in the throes of orgasm (then again it may only have been disappointment), “you fool, this is the twenty-second. Nobody believes in that shit any more!” But she was wrong, quite wrong: lots believed in that shit any more. The cult heads had a splendid and lucrative occupation. I was tired of living in the engines.
The Very Best of Barry N Malzberg Page 24