Gentle Invaders

by Hans Stefan Santesson

  The Linjeni spoke slowly, but Serena shook her head. “I don’t know enough Linjeni.”

  There was a whisper at her shoulder. “What do you know of Doovie?” And a pair of earphones were pushed into her hands. She adjusted them with trembling fingers. Why were they letting her talk? Why was General Worsham sitting there letting her break into the conference like this?

  “I know Doovie,” she said breathlessly. “I know Doovie’s mother, too. Doovie plays with Splinter, my son—my little son.” She twisted her fingers, dropping her head at the murmur that arose around the table. The Linjeni spoke again and the metallic murmur of the earphones gave her the translation. “What is the color of Doovie’s mother?”

  “Pink,” said Serena.

  Again the scurry for a word—pink—pink. Finally Serena turned up the hem of her skirt and displayed the hem of her slip—rose pink. The Linjeni sat down again, nodding.

  “Serena,” General Worsham spoke as quietly as though it were just another lounging evening in the patio. “What do you want?”

  Serena’s eyes wavered and then her chin lifted.

  “Thorn said today would be the last day. That it was to be ‘no’ on both sides. That we and the Linjeni have no common meeting ground, no basis for agreement on anything.”

  “And you think we have?” General Worsham’s voice cut gently through the stir at the naked statement of thoughts and attitudes so carefully concealed.

  “I know we do. Our alikenesses outweigh our differences so far that it’s just foolish to sit here all this time, shaking our differences at each other and not finding out a thing about our likenesses. We are fundamentally the same—the same—” she faltered. “Under God we are all the same.” And she knew with certainty that the translators wouldn’t find God’s name in their books. “I think we ought to let them eat our salt and bread and. make them welcome I” She half smiled and said, “The word for salt is shreeprill.”

  There was a smothered rush of whistling from the Linjeni and the lavender Linjeni half rose from his chair but subsided.

  General Worsham glanced at the Linjeni speculatively and pursed his lips. “But there are ramifications—” he began.

  “Ramifications!” spat Serena. “There are no ramifications that can’t resolve themselves if two peoples really know each other!”

  She glanced around the table, noting with sharp relief that Thorn’s face had softened.

  “Come with me!” she urged. “Come and see Doovie and Splinter together—Linjeni young and ours, who haven’t learned suspicion and fear and hate and prejudice yet. Declare a—a—recess or a truce or whatever is necessary and come with me. After you see the children and see Mrs. Pink knitting and we talk this matter over like members of a family—Well, if you still think you have to fight after that, then—” she spread her hands.

  Her knees shook so as they started downhill that Thorn had to help her walk.

  “Oh, Thorn,” she whispered, almost sobbing. “I didn’t think they would. I thought they’d shoot me or lock me up or—”

  “We don’t want war. I told you that,” he murmured. “We’re ready to grab at straws, even in the guise of snippy females who barge in on solemn councils and display their slips!” Then his lips tightened. “How long has this been going on?”

  “For Splinter, a couple of weeks. For me, a little more than a week.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried—twice. You wouldn’t listen. I was too scared to insist. Besides, you know what your reaction would have been.” Thorn had no words until they neared the foot of the hill, then he said, “How come you know so much? What makes you think you can solve—”

  Serena choked back a hysterical laugh. “I took eggs to a picnic!”

  And then they were standing, looking down at the hole under the fence.

  “Splinter found the way,” Serena defended. “I made it bigger, but you’ll have to get down—flat.”

  She dropped to the sand and wiggled under. She crouched on the other side, her knees against her chest, her clasped hands pressed against her mouth, and waited. There was a long minute of silence and then a creak and a grunt and Serena bit her lips as General Worsham snuck under the fence, flat on the sand, catching and jerking free halfway through. But her amusement changed to admiration as she realized that even covered with dust, scrambling awkwardly to his feet and beating his rumpled clothing, he possessed dignity and strength that made her deeply thankful that he was the voice of Earth in this time of crisis.

  One by one the others crawled under, the Linjeni sandwiched between the other men and Thorn bringing up the rear. Motioning silence, she led them to the thicket of bushes that screened one side of the goldfish pond.

  Doovie and Splinter were leaning over the edge of the pond. “There it is!” cried Splinter, leaning perilously and pointing. “Way down there on the bottom and it’s my best marble. Would your Mommie care if you got it for me?”

  Doovie peered down. “Marble go in water.”

  “That’s what I said,” cried Splinter impatiently. “And you can shut your nose . . .” he put his finger to the black, glistening button “ . . . and fold your ears,” he flicked them with his forefinger and watched them fold. “Gee!” he said admiringly. “I wish I could do that.”

  “Doovie go in water?” asked Doovie.

  “Yes,” nodded Splinter. “It’s my good taw, and you won’t even have to put on swimming trunks—you got fur.”

  Doovie shucked out of his brief clothing and slid down into the pond. He bobbed back up, his hand clenched.

  “Gee, thanks.” Splinter held out his hand and Doovie carefully turned his hand over and Splinter closed his. Then he shrieked and flung his hand out. “You mean old thing!” yelled Splinter. “Give me my marble! That was a slippy old fish!” he leaned over, scuffling, trying to reach Doovie’s other hand. There was a slither and a splash and Splinter and Doovie disappeared under the water.

  Serena caught her breath and had started forward when Doovie’s anxious face bobbed to the surface again. He yanked and tugged at the sputtering, coughing Splinter and tumbled him out onto the grass. Doovie squatted by Splinter, patting his back and alternately whistling dolefully through his nose and talking apologetic-sounding Linjeni.

  Splinter coughed and dug his fists into his eyes.

  “Golly, golly!” he said, spatting his hands against his wet jersey. “Mommie’ll sure be mad. My clean clothes all wet. Where’s my marble, Doovie?”

  Doovie scrambled to his feet and went back to the pond. Splinter started to follow, then he cried. “Oh, Doovie, where did that poor little fish go? It’ll die if it’s out of the water. My guppy did.”

  “Fish?” asked Doovie.

  “Yes,” said Splinter, holding out his hand as he searched the grass with intent eyes. “The slippy little fish that wasn’t my marble.”

  The two youngsters scrambled around in the grass until Doovie whistled and cried out triumphantly, “Fish!” and scooped it up in his hands and rushed it back to the pond.

  “There,” said Splinter. “Now it won’t die. Looky, it’s swimming away! ”

  Doovie slid into the pond again and retrieved the lost marble.

  “Now,” said Splinter. “Watch me and I’ll show you how to shoot.”

  The bushes beyond the two absorbed boys parted and Mrs. Pink stepped out. She smiled at the children and then she saw the silent group on the other side of the clearing. Her eyes widened and she gave an astonished whistle. The two boys looked up and followed the direction of her eyes.

  “Daddy!” yelled Splinter. “Did you come to play?” And he sped, arms outstretched, to Thorn, arriving only a couple of steps ahead of Doovie who was whistling excitedly and rushing to greet the tall lavender Linjeni.

  Serena felt a sudden choke of laughter at how alike Thorn and the Linjeni looked, trying to greet their offspring adequately and still retain their dignity.

  Mrs. Pink came hesitantly to the
group to stand in the circle of Serena’s arm. Splinter had swarmed up Thorn, hugged him with thoroughness and slid down again. “Hi, General Worsham!” he said, extending a muddy hand in a belated remembrance of his manners. “Hey, Daddy, I’m showing Doovie how to play marbles, but you can shoot better’n I can. You come show him how.”

  “Well—” said Thorn, glancing uncomfortably at General Worsham.

  General Worsham was watching the Linjeni as Doovie whistled and fluted over a handful of bright-colored glasses. He quirked an eyebrow at Thorn and then at the rest of the group.

  “I suggest a recess,” he said. “In order that we may examine new matters that have been brought to our attention,”

  Serena felt herself getting all hollow inside, and she turned her face away so Mrs. Pink wouldn’t see her cry. But Mrs. Pink was too interested in the colorful marbles to see Serena’s gathering, hopeful tears.

  I had occasion recently to ask a friend what she thought the word love meant. The same is perhaps true in the case of the word unnatural when used, as here, to describe an act or acts by aliens which seem strange to our eyes and minds.

  UNNATURAL ACT

  by

  EDWARD D. HOCH

  Rain had been falling since early morning, and Professor Alex Singer was depressed by the sight of it. The laboratory had been in readiness for two days now, sterile and waiting, but he’d had little to do except recheck the equipment and instruct the staff of doctors and technicians.

  This would be another day of waiting, he thought, but then the telephone rang. “Professor Singer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Colonel Moses here. The first Alien Ship has just landed. We should reach the laboratory in less than an hour.”

  “Everything’s ready,” Singer told him.

  Everything. After all these years of planning and preparation. He hung up the telephone and buzzed for his staff. Then he took down his journal from the shelf and wrote in a quick, firm hand: 14 October 19S9—First contact with the Aliens. Their ship has landed and Colonel Moses is conducting them to the laboratory for complete physical examinations. This is an historic day!

  The radio signals from space had begun almost a year before, tentative at first but with increasing regularity. Finally, within just a few months, the language barriers were broken down and arrangements were completed for the first earth landing by beings from another world.

  The creatures—the Aliens, as they were officially called—had been most cooperative thus far. They had even agreed to initial physical examinations, once it was explained to them that they might be carrying some virus or germ harmful to earth dwellers. Professor Singer had assembled a team of leading doctors, in a completely sterile hospital wing, to conduct the tests and examinations.

  Now, as he spoke on the telephone to his first assistant, he saw out the window that the rain was beginning to let up. Soon, through the drying streets, the caravan came into view. Armed soldiers on minibikes, followed by Colonel Moses in a staff car, and then the line of sterile trucks bearing the Aliens to their meeting with the earth doctors.

  Professor Alex Singer stepped out of his laboratory and went down to the entrance dock to greet them.

  Forty-eight hours later, Colonel Moses sat across the desk in Professor Singer’s private office. He was smoking a long black Alabama cigar, and he seemed quite pleased with himself. “Professor, you wouldn’t believe the number of newspaper and magazine interviews I’ve given since this whole thing started. And as soon as you clear them from quarantine, I’m going on a televised press conference with their spokesmen. I feel as if I’m almost as big an attraction as they are.”

  Professor Singer smiled indulgently. He glanced at his watch and flipped on the intertele. “Is the report about ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” his secretary replied. “It should be coming through the printer now.”

  He reached down to take the pages as they were fed out of the machine by his desk. “Here is a full report on their physical condition. As nearly as we can determine, they carry no virus. They can breathe our air and survive in this climate—though we may want to move them further south when winter comes.”

  “Their bodily structure is humanoid?” Colonel Moses asked. Professor Singer frowned down at the pages. “Well—yes and no. You had a quick glimpse of them yourself when they landed. You already know some of the more obvious differences. When they removed their flight suits, we found £ few others. They have no body hair of any sort, and their skin is perfectly smooth. There are no pores or openings as we know them.”

  Colonel Moses grunted. Such details did not concern him. “As long as they don’t have any germs . . .”

  Singer smiled. “They are guaranteed germ free. But there is one aspect of their bodily functions that disturbs us a bit. I don’t know if you’ll want to release this to the press or not.”

  “They seem to find out everything these days, whether we release it or not.”

  “Well . . .” He hesitated once again. “The truth of the matter, Colonel, is that these Aliens have one glaring abnormality, even taking into consideration the somewhat different environment of their planet.”

  “Abnormality? What abnormality?”

  “They have no sex organs.”

  In the two decades since the end of the Vietnam War and the coming of a general peace to the larger nations of the world, a number of things had happened. The most important, surely, from a sociological viewpoint, was the presidential election of 1976, which put a conservative into the White House and led directly to the formation of the government-backed SSS—the Society for the Supression of Salaciousness.

  Sex did not vanish overnight from the American scene. In fact, the bookstores in the large urban centers like New York and Los Angeles looked much as they always did. The main impact of the SSS had been in rural communities, and in the smaller cities of the midwest and south. There, without doubt, the people had heeded the slogans of the group and turned away from many salacious aspects of everyday life. The effect upon national magazines, television, and even the new home teleprinters was drastic.

  And thus the news of Professor Singer’s discovery brought a frown to the already wrinkled features of Colonel Moses. “No sex organs? How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know,” Singer admitted.

  “They reproduce, don’t they?”

  “We assume so. You must realize, Colonel, that we’ve only had them for two days. I’m sure we’ll get the answer before long. In the meantime, it might be best if this wasn’t mentioned at the press conference.”

  Moses nodded. “We’d probably have the SSS on our necks for just discussing it.”

  “Exactly. Keep it quiet, and we’ll have more information on it as soon as we can.”

  Later that afternoon, Professor Singer watched the televised press conference with great interest. He could only imagine that families in 100 million American homes, alerted by the news buzzer on their TV sets, were doing likewise.

  After a brief opening statement, Colonel Moses read greetings from the President and then turned the platform over to Tre-S, the spokesman for the Aliens, Singer had found Tre-S to be the most intelligent of the lot, and easily the best speaker in English. Some of the Aliens had an oddly distended mouth which made it difficult for them to pronounce many of the sounds that went into the formation of English words.

  But Tre-S spoke well. He spoke of their pleasure at being the first visitors to earth, and of their hopes that more would follow them. Watching the figure on the screen, Singer wondered just how well they would be accepted by earth. Already in Congress someone had suggested quotas for Aliens, and old immigration laws were in danger of revival.

  He sighed and went back to his notes. That was for others to determine. His own problem with the Aliens was of a more scientific nature.

  In the week that followed, the Aliens were split into two groups of about 25 each. One group journeyed to Washington for a personal greeting by the
President, then on across the country on a mission of good will. Already plans were under way for some of these to visit Europe and Asia by rocket for a day, and others would be heading for Africa and South America, The remaining 25, mainly the old and very young and infirm, had remained at the hospital, near their space ship.

  Professor Singer saw them daily, and spoke with them as best he could without the presence of Tre-5 to act as an interpreter. He still puzzled over the seeming lack of sex organs, and the subject was brought up almost daily at the staff meetings in his office. But it was not until the end of the week that the situation reached a head.

  “One of the Aliens is very ill,” Doctor Chang reported. “We can’t diagnose the trouble.”

  “Male or female?” Singer asked, slipping into his sterile suit. The doctors had been X-raying the Aliens all week, dividing them by sexes as best they could from internal evidence.

  “We haven’t gotten to this one yet, but we think female.”

  “Smaller than the others? Smaller than Tre-5?”

  “Yes.”

  The problem of the Alien’s illness was solved before they reached her. Somehow, unseen by the doctors and nurses, she had given birth to a baby.

  “My God!” Singer exclaimed. “But how?”

  “We didn’t see, Professor.”

  “Didn’t see! But there must be some evidence!”

  “There’s nothing,” Doctor Chang confirmed, straightening up from his examination. “The baby weighs 12% ounces, and seems to be in good health. There’s nothing to show how he—or she—was born.”

  “The entire thing’s impossible,” Singer declared. “Babies don’t just appear by magic. There must be some bodily opening we’ve missed in our examination. After all, creatures like snakes don’t appear to have sex organs unless they’re examined quite closely.”

  “We have examined them, Professor. You have our report on the skin condition and the lack of pores. They have no sex organs—the groups designated male and female seem identical in this. Internally there are some differences, but externally . . .”