by Jerry
“Whatever it is, I don’t think it is anything from which we will profit. No matter how good it looks, I am convinced that cooperation with these aliens will not ultimately be to our advantage. Despite the reports of every investigative agency in this government, I cannot believe that any such thing as pure altruism exists in a sane mind. And whatever I may believe about the Aztlans, I do not think they’re insane.”
The President sighed. “You are a suspicious man, Matson, and perhaps you are right; but it doesn’t matter what you believe—or what I believe for that matter. This government has decided to accept the help the Aztlans are so graciously offering. And until the reverse is proven, we must accept the fact that the star men are altruists, and work with them on that basis. You will organize your office along those lines, and extract every gram of information that you can. Even you must admit that they have knowledge that will improve our American way of life.”
Matson shook his head doggedly. “I’m afraid, Sir, if you expect Aztlan science to improve the American way of life, you are going to be disappointed. It might promote an Aztlan way of life, but the reverse is hardly possible.”
“It’s not my decision,” the President said. “My hands are tied. Congress voted for the deal by acclamation early this morning. I couldn’t veto it even if I wanted to.”
“I cannot cooperate in what I believe is our destruction.” Matson said in a flat voice.
“Then you have only one course,” the President said. “I will be forced to accept your resignation.” He sighed wearily.
“Personally, I think you’re making a mistake. Think it over before you decide. You’re a good man, and Lord knows the government can use good men. There are far too many fools in politics.” He shrugged and stood up. The interview was over.
Matson returned to his offices, filled with cold frustration. Even the President believed he could do nothing, and these shortsighted politicians who could see nothing more than the immediate gains—there was a special hell reserved for them. There were too many fools in politics. However, he would do what he could. His sense of duty was stronger than his resentment. He would stay on and try to cushion some of the damage which the Aztlans would inevitably cause, no matter how innocent their motives. And perhaps the President was right—perhaps the alien science would bring more good than harm.
FOR THE NEXT two years Matson watched the spread of Aztlan ideas throughout the world. He saw Aztlan devices bring health, food and shelter to millions in underprivileged countries, and improve the lot of those in more favored nations. He watched tyrannies and authoritarian governments fall under the passive resistance of their peoples. He saw militarism crumble to impotence as the Aztlan influence spread through every facet of society, first as a trickle, then as a steady stream, and finally as a rushing torrent. He saw Mankind on the brink of a Golden Age—and he was unsatisfied.
Reason said that the star men were exactly what they claimed to be. Their every action proved it. Their consistency was perfect, their motives unimpeachable, and the results of their efforts were astounding. Life on Earth was becoming pleasant for millions who never knew the meaning of the word. Living standards improved, and everywhere men were conscious of a feeling of warmth and brotherhood. There was no question that the aliens were doing exactly what they promised.
But reason also told him that the aliens were subtly and methodically destroying everything that man had created, turning him from an individual into a satisfied puppet operated by Aztlan strings. For man is essentially lazy—always searching for the easier way. Why should he struggle to find an answer when the Aztlans had discovered it millennia ago and were perfectly willing to share their knowledge? Why should he use inept human devices when those of the aliens performed similar operations with infinitely more ease and efficiency? Why should he work when all he had to do was ask? There was plan behind their acts.
But at that point reason dissolved into pure speculation. Why were they doing this? Was it merely mistaken kindliness or was there a deeper more subtle motive? Matson didn’t know, and in that lack of knowledge lay the hell in which he struggled.
For two years he stayed on with the OSR, watching humanity rush down an unmarked road to an uncertain future. Then he ran away. He could take no more of this blind dependence upon alien wisdom. And with the change in administration that had occurred in the fall elections he no longer had the sense of personal loyalty to the President which had kept him working at a job he despised. He wanted no part of this brave new world the aliens were creating. He wanted to be alone. Like a hermit of ancient times who abandoned society to seek his soul, Matson fled to the desert country of the South-west—as far as possible from the Aztlans and their works.
The grimly beautiful land toughened his muscles, blackened his skin, and brought him a measure of peace. Humanity retreated to remoteness except for Seth Winters, a leathery old-timer he had met on his first trip into the desert. The acquaintance had ripened to friendship. Seth furnished a knowledge of the desert country which Matson lacked, and Matson’s money provided the occasional grubstake they needed. For weeks at a time they never saw another human—and Matson was satisfied. The world could go its own way. He would go his.
Running away was the smartest thing he could have done. Others more brave perhaps, or perhaps less rational—had tried to fight, to form an underground movement to oppose these altruists from space; but they were a tiny minority so divided in motives and purpose that they could not act as a unit. They were never more than a nuisance, and without popular support they never had a chance. After the failure of a complicated plot to assassinate the aliens, they were quickly rounded up and confined. And the aliens continued their work.
Matson shrugged. It was funny how little things could mark mileposts in a man’s life. If he had known of the underground he probably would have joined it and suffered the same penalty for failure. If he hadn’t fled, if he hadn’t met Seth Winters, if he hadn’t taken that last trip into the desert, if any one of a hundred little things had happened differently he would not be here. That last trip into the desert—he remembered it as though it were yesterday . . .
The yellow flare of a greasewood fire cast flickering spears of light into the encircling darkness. Above, in the purplish black vault of the moonless sky the stars shone down with icy splendor. The air was quiet, the evening breeze had died, and the stillness of the desert night pressed softly upon the earth. Far away, muted by distance, came the ululating wail of a coyote.
Seth Winters laid another stick of quick-burning greasewood on the fire and squinted across the smoke at Matson who was lying on his back, arms crossed behind his head, eyeing the night sky with the fascination of a dreamer.
“It’s certainly peaceful out here,” Matson murmured as he rose to his feet, stretched, and sat down again looking into the tiny fire.
“ ‘Tain’t nothin’ unusual, Dan’l. Not out here it ain’t. It’s been plumb peaceful on this here desert nigh onto a million years. An’ why’s it peaceful? Mainly ‘cuz there ain’t too many humans messin’ around in it.”
“Possibly you’re right, Seth.”
“Shore I’m right. It jest ain’t nacheral fer a bunch of Homo saps to get together without an argyment startin’ somewhere. ‘Tain’t the nature of the critter to be peaceable. An’ y’know, thet’s the part of this here sweetness an’ light between nations that bothers me. Last time I was in Prescott, I set down an’ read six months of newspapers—an’ everything’s jest too damn good to be true. Seems like everybody’s gettin’ to love everybody else.” He shook his head. “The hull world’s as sticky-sweet as molasses candy. It jest ain’t nacheral!”
“The star men are keeping their word. They said that they would bring us peace. Isn’t that what they’re doing?”
“Shucks Dan’l—that don’t give ’em no call to make the world a blasted honey-pot with everybody bubblin’ over with brotherly love. There ain’t no real excitement left. Even the Commies ai
n’t raisin’ hell like they useta. People are gettin’ more like a bunch of damn woolies every day.”
“I’ll admit that Mankind had herd instincts,” Matson replied lazily, “but I’ve never thought of them as particularly sheeplike. More like a wolf pack, I’d say.”
“Wal, there’s nothin’ wolflike about ’em right now. Look, Dan’l, yuh know what a wolf pack’s like. They’re smart, tough, and mean—an’ the old boss wolf is the smartest, toughest, and meanest critter in the hull pack. The others respect him ‘cuz he’s proved his ability to lead. But take a sheep flock now—the bellwether is jest a nice gentle old castrate thet’ll do jest whut the sheepherder wants. He’s got no originality. He’s jest a noise thet the rest foller.”
“Could be.”
“It shore is! Jes f’r instance, an’ speakin’ of bellwethers, have yuh ever heard of a character called Throckmorton Bixbee?”
“Can’t say I have. He sounds like a nance.”
“Whutever a nance is—he’s it! But yuh’re talkin’ about our next President, unless all the prophets are wrong. He’s jest as bad as his name. Of all the gutless wonders I’ve ever heard of that pilgrim takes the prize. He even looks like a rabbit!”
“I can see where I had better catch up on some contemporary history,” Matson said. “I’ve been out in the sticks too long.”
“If yuh know what’s good fer yuh, yuh’ll stay here. The rest of the country’s goin’ t’hell. Brother Bixbee’s jest a sample. About the only thing that’d recommend him is that he’s hot fer peace—an’ he’s got those furriners’ blessing. Seems like those freaks swing a lotta weight nowadays, an’ they ain’t shy about tellin’ folks who an’ what they favor. They’ve got bold as brass this past year.”
Matson nodded idly—then stiffened—turning a wide eyed stare on Seth. A blinding light exploded in his brain as the words sank in. With crystal clarity he knew the answer! He laughed harshly.
Winters stared at him with mild surprise. “What’s bit yuh, Dan’l?”
But Matson was completely oblivious, busily buttressing the flash of inspiration. Sure—that was the only thing it could be! Those aliens were working on a program—one that was grimly recognizable once his attention was focussed on it. There must have been considerable pressure to make them move so fast that a short-lived human could see what they were planning—but Matson had a good idea of what was driving them, an atomic war that could decimate the world would be all the spur they’d need!
They weren’t playing for penny ante stakes. They didn’t want to exploit Mankind. They didn’t give a damn about Mankind! To them humanity was merely an unavoidable nuisance—something to be pushed aside, to be made harmless and dependent, and ultimately to be quietly and bloodlessly eliminated. Man’s civilization held nothing that the star men wanted, but man’s planet—that was a different story! Truly the aliens were right when they considered man a savage. Like the savage, man didn’t realize his most valuable possession was his land!
The peaceful penetration was what had fooled him. Mankind, faced with a similar situation, and working from a position of overwhelming strength would have reacted differently. Humanity would have invaded and conquered. But the aliens had not even considered this obvious step.
Why?
The answer was simple and logical. They couldn’t! Even though their technology was advanced enough to exterminate man with little or no loss to themselves, combat and slaughter must be repulsive to them. It had to be. With their telepathic minds they would necessarily have a pathologic horror of suffering. They were so highly evolved that they simply couldn’t fight—at least not with the weapons of humanity. But they could use the subtler weapon of altruism!
And even more important—uncontrolled emotions were poison to them. In fact Ixtl had admitted it back in Seattle. The primitive psi waves of humanity’s hates, lusts, fears, and exultations must be unbearable torture to a race long past such animal outbursts. That was—must be—why they were moving so fast. For their own safety, emotion had to be damped out of the human race.
Matson had a faint conception of what the aliens must have suffered when they first surveyed that crowd at International Airport. No wonder they looked so strangely immobile at that first contact! The raw emotion must have nearly killed them! He felt a reluctant stir of admiration for their courage, for the dedicated bravery needed to face that crowd and establish a beachhead of tranquility. Those first few minutes must have had compressed in them the agonies of a lifetime!
Matson grinned coldly. The aliens were not invulnerable. If Mankind could be taught to fear and hate them, and if that emotion could be focussed, they never again would try to take this world. It would be sheer suicide. As long as Mankind kept its emotions it would be safe from this sort of invasion. But the problem was to teach Mankind to fear and hate. Shock would do it, but how could that shock be applied?
The thought led inevitably to the only possible conclusion. The aliens would have to be killed, and in such a manner as to make humanity fear retaliation from the stars. Fear would unite men against a possible invasion, and fear would force men to reach for the stars to forestall retribution.
Matson grinned thinly. Human nature couldn’t have changed much these past years. Even with master psychologists like the Aztlans operating upon it, changes in emotional pattern would require generations. He sighed, looked into the anxious face of Seth Winters, and returned to the reality of the desert night. His course was set. He knew what he had to do.
HE LAID THE rifle across his knees and opened the little leather box sewn to the side of the guncase. With precise, careful movements he removed the silencer and fitted it to the threaded muzzle of the gun. The bulky, blue excrescence changed the rifle from a thing of beauty to one of murder. He looked at it distastefully, then shrugged and stretched out on the mattress, easing the ugly muzzle through the hole in the brickwork. It wouldn’t be long now . . .
He glanced upward through the window above him at the Weather Bureau instruments atop a nearby building. The metal cups of the anemometer hung motionless against the metallic blue of the sky. No wind stirred in the deep canyons of the city streets as the sun climbed in blazing splendor above the towering buildings. He moved a trifle, shifting the muzzle of the gun until it bore upon the sidewalks. The telescopic sight picked out faces from the waiting crowd with a crystal clarity. Everywhere was the same sheeplike placidity. He shuddered, the sights jumping crazily from one face to another,—wondering if he had misjudged his race, if he had really come too late, if he had underestimated the powers of the Aztlans.
Far down the avenue, an excited hum came to his ears, and the watching crowd stirred. Faces lighted and Matson sighed. He was not wrong. Emotion was only suppressed, not vanished. There was still time!
The aliens were coming. Coming to cap the climax of their pioneer work, to drive the first nail in humanity’s coffin! For the first time in history man’s dream of the brotherhood of man was close to reality.
And he was about to destroy it! The irony bit into Matson’s soul, and for a moment he hesitated, feeling the wave of tolerance and good will rising from the street below. Did he have the right to destroy man’s dream? Did he dare tamper with the will of the world? Had he the right to play God?
The parade came slowly down the happy street, a kaleidoscope of color and movement that approached and went past in successive waves and masses. This was a gala day, this eve of world union! The insigne of the UN was everywhere. The aliens had used the organization to further their plans and it was now all-powerful. A solid bank of UN flags led the van of delegates, smiling and swathed in formal dress, sitting erect in their black official cars draped with the flags of native lands that would soon be furled forever if the aliens had their way.
And behind them came the Aztlans!
They rode together, standing on a pure white float, a bar of dazzling white in a sea of color. All equal, their inhumanly beautiful faces calm and remote, the Aztlans rod
e through the joyful crowd. There was something inspiring about the sight and for a moment, Matson felt a wave of revulsion sweep through him.
He sighed and thumbed the safety to “off”, pulled the cocking lever and slid the first cartridge into the breech. He settled himself drawing a breath of air into his lungs, letting a little dribble out through slack lips, catching the remainder of the exhalation with closed glottis. The sights wavered and steadied upon the head of the center alien, framing the pale noble face with its aureole of golden hair. The luminous eyes were dull and introspective as the alien tried to withdraw from the emotions of the crowd. There was no awareness of danger on the alien’s face. At 600 yards he was beyond their esper range and he was further covered by the feelings of the crowd. The sights lowered to the broad chest and centered there as Matson’s spatulate fingers took up the slack in the trigger and squeezed softly and steadily.
A coruscating glow bathed the bodies of three of the aliens as their tall forms jerked to the smashing impact of the bullets! Their metallic tunics melted and sloughed as inner fires ate away the fragile garments that covered them! Flexible synthetic skin cracked and curled in the infernal heat, revealing padding, wirelike tendons, rope-like cords of flexible tubing and a metallic skeleton that melted and dripped in white hot drops in the heat of atomic flame—
“Robots!” Matson gasped with sudden blinding realization. “I should have known! No wonder they seemed inhuman. Their builders would never dare expose themselves to the furies and conflicts of our emotionally uncontrolled world!”