by Sesh Heri
Tesla hung up the telephone receiver and looked about the room at the bird cages and the shelves filled with Nabisco cracker tins. The room seemed to spin. He felt in his coat for the bag of bird seed with his left hand, brought out the bag, and went over to the door. He opened the door, slowly bent down, and placed the bag of bird seed on the carpeted floor of the outside corridor. He then tried to raise himself up, but the corridor and doorway began to spin madly around. He clung to the doorknob, pulled himself upright and then back into his apartment. He slammed the door shut.
Then Tesla began the long march to his bedroom down the hall, wavering, tottering with every step, the hall spinning past him, the floor tilting back and forth. The Hotel New Yorker had transformed to a ship at sea taking the height of storm and Tesla was now the captain, last aboard, going down with the ship.
Tesla reached the door of his bedroom and saw his bed, bucking over the high waves. Perhaps I can make the plunge, he thought. He pitched forward, his legs rubber, his stomach heaving, his chest a maelstrom of flame, his hands flailing, his mind tortured and lost.
Then Tesla collapsed toward his bed, a spinning, black chasm opening before him. He fell for what seemed to him miles. Before he hit bottom, everything became a roaring blackness—
and then not even that.
Nikola Tesla was not all right in a day or two, but bedridden for six months, first with three broken ribs that had been fractured by the collision with the cab, and then with pneumonia, contracted in his convalescence from his rib fractures.
By the spring of 1938 Tesla was on his feet again, but pale and thinner than ever. Now his mind would become confused at intervals and his thoughts would slip back to earlier times and places and friends. Some of the friends he thought about he believed were still alive, but they had actually been dead for years. Sometimes he would believe that his injuries had been caused by the Martians, or alternatively, by an arch conspiracy organized by the Nine Unknown Men. Then his mind would clear and he would remember that he had only been hit by a cab because he had not looked when he had started out across Fifth Avenue.
Slowly Tesla’s mind began to clear and he regained his grasp on reality. But his contact with Majestic Seven had been severed. Once he was a member of the Seven himself, but for years he had only been their consulting engineer. Now he was completely cut loose from Majestic Seven. Because of this, Tesla knew nothing of the interplanetary war of 1938 fought between Earth and Mars.
The war began— and ended— on June 2nd, 1938 when an unmanned space station operated by the United States Space Force detected the approach of three ships on a direct course for Earth. Telescopic images transmitted by television back to Majestic Seven on Earth revealed that the three ships were of known Martian design. The U.S.S. Cosmos was dispatched into space, along with two other Space Force ships. In ten minutes, the war between Earth and Mars was over. The three Martian ships were disintegrated by electric rays from the U.S.S. Cosmos.
Within a day, coded messages were intercepted by agents of Majestic Seven. When the messages were decoded, it was discovered that the three Martian ships had only been elaborate decoys, empty hulls sent to test the strength of earth’s space forces. Majestic Seven realized that Mars was planning a major attack directed at the United States. Correlating the actions of the Martians with those of Hitler, it seemed likely that Germany and Mars had re-established contact and that they were forming an alliance to wage war against the United States.
In an ultra-secret emergency meeting of Majestic Seven, FDR asked the other six men seated before him: “What can we do to prepare the American people for an interplanetary war, if one confronts us? I want this question analyzed inside and out, backwards and forwards, and with the greatest rapidity possible by the greatest of our minds. I want the best minds of our age to be consulted on this question. I know this question has been asked by Presidents before me. I want it asked again now and answered with everything we presently know. And I want some concrete steps advised.”
Majestic Seven began a flurry of research into the psychological ramifications of publicly declared interplanetary war. Professors in psychology, sociology, history, and economics were given secret government contracts to the study the problem of interplanetary war as a hypothetical. While this was happening, agents of Majestic Seven swept across the Earth and down into its subterranean recesses searching for Martians. The ships of the United States Space Force kept constant surveillance of the space between the Earth and the Moon.
By early October, the results of the sociological studies were submitted to Majestic Seven. All of the studies were inconclusive, some contradicting the others. Many of the studies used historical cases of technically primitive societies being contacted by Europeans. In all such cases, the social and psychological impact on the primitive society was devastating, wiping out its culture and demoralizing its people. While the civilization of Mars was not more technically advanced than that of Earth, the secret military technology of both Mars and Earth was far in advanced of what the masses of both planets possessed. A public interplanetary war would necessitate the revelation of the secret technology to the masses of both planets. Also, such a war would necessitate the revelation of the secret history of Mars and Earth that had been suppressed from public knowledge for thousands of years. The majority of studies advised that any interplanetary war conducted by the Earth should be kept strictly secret.
“We may not be able to keep the secret,” FDR said upon reading all of the abstracts of the studies. “This might especially be so if the Martians assist Hitler to any appreciable extent.”
“It’s astounding what can happen and still remain a secret,” Bernard Baruch said. “Still, I understand your concerns. Why don’t we put it to a test?”
“What do you mean?” FDR asked.
“Why don’t we see how the American people would react to an interplanetary war,” Baruch said. “We could stage a battle, let a test group of people see it, and observe their reactions.”
“That sounds impractical,” FDR said. “And problematical. If there was a security leak, we’d have to do some explaining. It would be very easy for people to talk afterwards.”
“I see your point,” Baruch said. “Well taken. We wouldn’t want a lot of talk or leaks. No. But maybe we could do it a different way. Somehow make the test in a way where it doesn’t even look like a test. That way if there were leaks, it would all be deniable.”
“That would be the way to go,” FDR said. “But how? How specifically could we do such a test?”
“Well,” Baruch said, “I’m thinking of something right now, and it’s pretty wild, but we need something pretty wild. I’m thinking of what you were saying the other day about the power of radio.”
“Yes?” FDR asked. “What did I say?”
“About how it can make the listener see, taste, touch, and feel everything in the world just by using sound,” Baruch replied.
“That’s right,” FDR said. “So?”
“So…” Baruch said, “we could make a radio broadcast announcing an attack by invaders from space ships— from Mars, even.”
“But,” FDR asked, “would anyone even believe that?”
“If it was done correctly,” Baruch said, “the question would be: can we get anyone to not believe it?”
“Well, now,” FDR said, “if I’m understanding you correctly, that sounds like you might start a panic, like shouting ‘fire’ in a theatre.”
“Maybe,” Baruch said. “Maybe some people would panic and others wouldn’t. Some people will jump if they see a mouse. We could take an exact measure of how many people are jumpy and how many aren’t. But if what we do makes a lot of people jumpy, we can never tell the public the truth about the Martians.”
“Perhaps there’s a way to do this,” FDR said, “where we could test the public reaction without driving everybody crazy. We could present the interplanetary war as a fictional story on the radio. What about H.G. Wells’ W
ar of the Worlds? Didn’t he even base that on what he had heard about the real Martians?”
“Indeed he did,” Baruch said. “He got it all from Stephen Crane who got it from Amy Leslie.”
“We could have a radio play version of War of the Worlds presented,” FDR said.
“Only one thing,” Baruch said. “War of the Worlds was set in England. We need an American story to test on our people.”
“I’m already ahead of you,” FDR said. “We need a playwright to do an adaptation and I know who we can get…”
“George Ade!” FDR and Baruch said in unison.
“Why,” FDR said, “he has even been to Mars. He’s our man.”
FDR placed a call to George Ade and ordered him to come to Washington. The next day, Ade sat across from FDR in the Map Room of the White House.
“Sure,” Ade said. “I can do the adaptation, but first we’ll have to get rights to the story from H.G. Wells.”
“We’ve already got them,” FDR said.
“You’re really moving on this,” Ade said.
“Yes,” FDR said, “and now you have to move on it. I want you to get this on the air by October 30th.”
“Of this year?” Ade asked. “That’s different. I can’t do this by myself. I’m going to need some help.”
“Get it,” FDR said.
“I know what I’ll do,” Ade said. “In fact, it’s the perfect solution. Let’s turn this whole thing over to Orson Welles.”
“The boy wonder of radio?” FDR asked.
“One and the same,” Ade said. “I know Orson can do it. He has his Mercury Theatre on CBS. He can present it on that. He would do a great job of it, after all I should know.”
“How is that?” FDR asked.
“I’m his godfather,” Ade said.
“Really,” FDR said.
“Of a sort,” Ade said. “Orson’s mother named him after my friend Orson Wells and me— George Orson Welles. We were on a cruise in the West Indies in 1914, and Orson’s mother was expecting at that time. She said if it was a boy, she’d name him after us. And she did.”
“Then it’s settled,” FDR chuckled. “Go tell our boy wonder to get to work.”
George Ade went up to New York and called Orson Welles on the phone.
“I’m terribly busy,” Welles said, “but perhaps I can squeeze you in for a few minutes if you’ll meet me at Reuben’s Restaurant. I’m going over there right now.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Ade said.
Minutes later, George Ade found Orson Welles at Reuben’s Restaurant. Welles was tucked away in the corner, and gorging on a plate of spaghetti between gulps of a tall milkshake. Several other actors sat at the table with Welles, all of them going over their scripts. Welles’ co-producer, John Houseman, sat next to Welles. Houseman was sharply dressed in a tweed suit, but looked pale and exhausted.
“George!” Welles exclaimed. “Sit down and order something.”
“I didn’t come to eat,” Ade said, sitting down at the table. “Just to talk.”
“Here we all eat while we talk,” Welles said. He then turned to a waiter and said, “Bring him a sandwich— anything— corned beef on rye.”
“You remembered,” Ade said.
“Corned beef on rye,” Welles said. “That’s what you ordered when we had lunch with my father in 1929.”
“Memory like a steel trap,” Houseman said. “Just be careful not to get your foot caught in it.”
“Orson,” Ade said, “I’d like to talk with you…alone.”
Ade glanced around the table at the actors.
“So serious,” Welles said with a faint smile. “This is not like you, George. Oh! Don’t tell me! You want to go back to writing for the stage. Take my advice: don’t do it. A man your age should relax and enjoy the bounty of life!”
“I relax a lot my friend,” Ade said with a grin. “I relax so much that back home they have to put extra starch in my collars just so I can hold my head up.”
“Next thing you know they’ll be giving you a bib,” Welles said.
“I don’t need one yet,” Ade said, “but looks like you could use one.”
Welles’ looked down at the front of his shirt, brought up a linen napkin and rubbed at a spot of spaghetti sauce.
“Out, out damned spot!” Welles intoned.
“Right now I just want to talk to you,” Ade said. “Alone.”
“So exclusive,” Welles said. “What about Houseman here? He’s my co-producer.”
Ade shook his head slowly. A glint fired up in Orson Welles’ eyes.
“Just you and me,” Ade said.
“Sounds like blackmail,” John Houseman said.
“All right,” Welles said, “everybody— go! Go on! Get up and go! You too, John.”
“If you disappear,” John Houseman said, “I’ll have them drag the river.”
“Don’t worry,” Welles said. “I’m well armed and George here is an old friend.”
“That’s the most dangerous kind,” John Houseman replied, and walked off.
Everyone departed, leaving George Ade and Orson Welles at the table by themselves. Welles studied Ade a moment, then bent down and resumed stuffing spaghetti into his mouth.
Chewing and swallowing rapidly, Welles finally asked, “Now what is it?”
“I want you to do a show on your Mercury Theatre,” Ade said.
“I thought so,” Welles said as he put his glass to his lips and rapidly gulped his milkshake. He stopped a moment and gasped: “What’s your story about?” and then went back to gulping his milkshake.
“Well,” Ade said, “it’s not about food.”
Welles’ eyes turned and pivoted over to Ade.
Welles lowered his glass and said, “I’m listening.”
“It’s not my story,” Ade said. “It was written by another author, H.G. Wells.”
“His name sounds vaguely like mine,” Welles observed. “Almost poetic, in a doggerel kind of way.”
“I’m talking about his War of the Worlds,” Ade said.
“Wait a minute,” Welles said, pushing his plate back. “Some dullard over at CBS just said something to me about War of the Worlds. I told him it was a stupid idea. Mercury Theatre is about quality drama, not comic book stuff. Now you come to me with the same idea. What’s going on here? What’s this all about?”
Ade said nothing, but only sat watching Welles. Ade began to drum his fingers on the table.
“Wait a minute,” Welles said.
“Yes?” Ade asked lazily.
“The Mars Club,” Welles said.
“What about it?” Ade asked.
“Is this…” Welles voice broke off, then resumed: “Is this the… initiation? Is this how I get in? I mean, I’ve been trying to get into the Mars Club over at the Players for the longest time and they keep giving me the cold shoulder. Then somebody said, ‘Talk to George Ade. He’s the only one who can get you in.’ So…I’m asking: did somebody tell you I wanted to join?”
“No,” Ade said. “I haven’t heard a thing until now.”
“Well, I want to join,” Welles said.
“Why?” Ade asked.
“Why? Why?” Welles asked. “Because I hear that you guys have some of the wildest parties in the world!”
“Well,” Ade said, “I don’t know what you’ve heard. But I think you’ve probably been given the wrong idea. The Mars Club is more of a scientific study group. It’s all rather dull, really. And then I hear it’s not what it used to be.”
“You hear?” Welles asked.
“I haven’t been involved in years,” Ade said. “But I hear that it has lost a lot of its energy and…charm.”
“Why do you think?” Welles asked.
“I suppose,” Ade said, “because almost none of the present day members have ever really gone to Mars.”
“Ever really gone…” Welles said, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “That’s all baloney…isn’t it? “
&nb
sp; “Baloney?” Ade asked. “No, it’s not baloney. All of the original members of the Mars Club really went to Mars— that is, except Joseph Jefferson. He never went, but I suppose he consumed enough alcohol to fuel a rocket to Mars.”
“You’re not kidding,” Welles said, his eyes searching back and forth over Ade’s face. Ade shook his head.
“If you want to join the Mars Club at the Players, I can get you in,” Ade said, “but you have to do War of the Worlds on your radio show.”
“Then this is the initiation!” Welles exclaimed.
“We can make it that,” Ade said.
“We can make it that!” Welles intoned sarcastically. “It is that and you know it, you old liar.”
Welles shoved more spaghetti into his mouth, but continued to speak in a garbled chew: “I’m in with both feet and don’t give me any more garbage about the Mars Club being dull and not being what it once was. Don’t soft sell a soft seller. Don’t kid a kidder. What do you want me to do?”
Ade said, “I want you to do War of the Worlds like it’s a news broadcast. Switch the story to America, to the east coast here, and make it sound like it’s really happening. Make it as real as you can.”
Welles swallowed hard, and then asked, “Why?”
“Because I asked,” Ade replied.
“Why?” Welles insisted.
Ade looked over his shoulder. No one was sitting near. He looked back to Welles.
“It’s a test,” Ade said. “We want to see what people will do.”
“We? Who’s ‘we’?” Welles asked.
“The government,” Ade said.
“Who in the government?” Welles asked.
“It comes from the top,” Ade said.
“FDR?” Welles asked.
Ade nodded.
Welles looked down at the table, then up to Ade, and asked, “If something goes awry, will I be protected? Or are you setting me up to be the fall guy, the patsy for these shenanigans?”
“You’ll come out of it unscathed,” Ade said, “and more famous than ever.”
“I should think so,” Welles said.