by Keith Laumer
He took a seat at the far end of the room, with a silent sigh of relief. Suddenly, his accumulated fatigue washed over him like a wave. The warmth of the room was soothing, comforting . . .
He jerked his head up with a start as the librarian placed the magazine before him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Almost dozed off. Not used to all that hiking . . . “
“You poor man,” the woman clucked. “Would you like a cup of coffee? And I have some crumpets.” She lowered her voice. “It’s against the rules to eat in the library, of course, but one does get bored, just sitting―and at this hour, I doubt if Miss Wicket is likely to drop in . . . “ She almost winked, David thought.
“Wonderful, Miss, ah,” he said. “Nothing like a hearty crumpet to stave off collapse.”
Eating the dry cookie and sipping the hot coffee, David opened the magazine, leafed through it, his mind on other, less peaceful matters. Three months, Dorn had said, the last words he had blurted out before poor Thrall’s Invader-trap had, against all likelihood, smashed down on him. Three months. It had been a challenge―and a warning. And now the three months were almost gone. Time was running out. And soon―somewhere―the event would occur that had lent the note of triumph to the alien’s words. Somewhere―but where? And what? Again, the utter helplessness of his position made David clench his fists in impotent frustration.
With an effort, he calmed himself, cleared his mind. The Invaders were not supermen, he reminded himself. They had strange powers, true, abilities exceeding those of ordinary men. But, on the other side of the coin, they were few, and working in small, isolated cells, against great odds. And most of them―with the notable exception of the one called Dorn―appeared to be little better than servants, near-moronic carriers-out of orders, incapable of original, imaginative action. As for their great strength, their invulnerability to ordinary weapons, that was mere technology, not biological superiority. Their bodies were constructs, organic machines, nothing more.
But this was all familiar ground, the same conclusions, David had reached in the past, mulling over what little he had learned of the Invaders. So little―and so little time left.
And yet―if he made one more effort, dug into the meagre data, extracted all the information possible―perhaps there was something there he had missed, some clue he was overlooking . . . .
There was a pad and pencil on the table. David pulled them to him, began jotting . . . .
An hour later, he had compiled a list―a pitifully short list―of facts relating to the aliens:
1.They are not natives of Earth; ergo, they came here from another world.
2.They can tolerate great heat. Also, their own body temperatures rise very high under stress. Therefore, it’s likely they come from a high temperature planet.
3.There are only a few of them. This suggests that either: (a) They represent some sort of small-scale expedition, possibly on a scientific nature, or: (b) they have suffered some disaster which has reduced their numbers.
4. (b) above seems more likely. Based on Dorn’s remarks, it appears they intend to take over the planet for their own use.
David paused, re-reading the last item. What was it he had overheard, in the communications room in the tunnel complex inside the dormant volcano? He closed his eyes, remembered the alien voice coming from the TV screen!
“ . . . brood racks cannot long endure the null-G condition. Nutrient supplies approach exhaustion; energy flow levels dropping rapidly. Contact must be made within one half revolution . . . “
Brood racks. The spawn of the aliens. He pictured the Invaders’ vessel, lurking somewhere in space, invisible to Earth’s crude radar scanners, its hull loaded, not with adult life-forms, but with embryonic creatines, awaiting the preparation of a secure nest below. Then, a landing, the release of hordes of eggs―grubs―whatever form they took. And then, in days or weeks or months―a plague of aliens, bursting out of their hidden brooding places, to overwhelm the unsuspecting planet-
David wiped his hand across his eyes, forcing himself to relax, willing his pulse to slow its hammering. The picture in his mind was as vivid as reality―but it was just a picture. He had to remember that. In the other direction lay madness.
And yet―it fitted. Three months, Dorn had said. It might have been just such a landing he was referring to: the bringing to earth of the brood-ship, ready to lay its eggs in the living flesh of the planet, like a Tsetse fly, depositing its young in the living body of a cow, to hatch and devour the flesh of the unwitting host.
But even with the present primitive state of the world’s radar defenses, it would be impossible for an object as large as even a small ship to enter the atmosphere unseen. The Invaders who were already here might have been dropped in tiny, one-alien pods, and thus escaped detection; but a ship would have to show up on the screens. And in the present state of world tension, any object dropping in from a deep space orbit would be the instant object of attention―and of interceptor missiles. And even if they failed to bring it down, it would be tracked, its landing site pin-pointed, surrounded . . .
It made no sense. Dorn’s three months deadline HAD to mean a new landing from space. And such a landing was an impossibility.
Unless, of course, all his speculations were in error, all his guesses―just guesses, wild, random ideas, with no relation to reality.
But there was nothing else for him to go on. For all these months, he had watched, scanned faces, read newspapers, searching for anything, any tiniest hint of the Invaders presence―and found nothing. Unless he made assumptions now, he would have to admit defeat; admit himself helpless. And that, David Vincent said silently, fiercely, he would never do!
Unseeing, he turned the pages of the magazine. A picture caught his eye: a photograph of the night sky, streaked across with bright lines.
METEOR SHOWER EXPECTED read the headline beneath it.
David sat staring at the words for a moment. Then, swiftly, he scanned the article. A group of minor rocky bodies had been detected in orbit twenty million miles from Earth, spiraling inward from a previous position beyond Mars. Calculations showed that at their relatively slow velocity of twenty thousand MPH, their path would intersect Earth’s orbit in six weeks―on the twenty-seventh day of November―
And this was the twenty-first. David felt excitement stir within him.
He read on. While the main mass of the meteor would clear the Earth by half a million miles, passing beyond the orbit of the moon and continuing on into the sun, the planet’s gravitational field might be expected to divert some of the bodies from their course, causing them to take up new orbits around the planet, and eventually enter the atmosphere, where they would be destroyed by air friction, causing a brilliant display in the night sky. The best viewing, the article concluded, would be in the desert area north of Phoenix, Arizona.
David closed the magazine, his mind racing. Earth’s astronomers had picked up the approaching swarm six weeks ago; if the Invaders, as he assumed, had a ship orbiting in space nearby, no doubt they could have detected the bodies much earlier―perhaps six months earlier . . . .
Abruptly, more words spoken by the alien communication monitor flashed into his mind:
“You must wait . . . until the cloud passes . . .
He stood, his chair scraping loudly in the silent room.
“Ohh―must you be going?” the librarian chirped from behind her desk.
“Yes,” David said. He buttoned his coat, moving toward the door. “There’s not much time left . . . “
“Your plane is leaving now? It’s miles to the airport. Shall I call you a cab?”
He looked at the little old lady. Lonely, insecure, with nothing ahead but a few more brief years of thankless puttering among her books―and then the eternal darkness. And yet how bravely she faced the prospect, even gave of her warmth and her small comforts to a passing stranger. David reached out, took her withered hand.
“Thanks,” he said. “For bein
g so human. And don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.”
The image of her answering smile hung in his mind as he pushed out into the cold wind, leaving the brightness and warmth behind.
Chapter Two
It had been an all-night bus ride to Springfield, the site of the State University. Now, in mid-morning, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, David went along the wide, antiseptic corridor of the Bowser Memorial Science Building, reading the neat black lettering on the glass doors. A shapely co-ed emerged from a room ahead, glanced at the tall, gaunt-faced stranger.
“Can . . . can I help you?” she asked hesitantly. She had immense eyes, soft brown hair to her shoulders, a rounded bosom under the bale blue Angora sweater. She looked neat, clean, innocent―a world removed from the fantastic threat of the Invaders.
“I’m looking for Professor Skinner’s office,” he said. His throat was husky, his voice rough in his own ears.
“Right down that way―at the end of the hall, and to the right.” The girl hesitated. “Would you like me to show you?” She moved closer, and David caught a faint odor of a fight perfume, of soap, of cleanliness, which made him more aware than ever of his unshaven face, his rumpled clothes.
“No thanks,” he said brusquely. “I can find it on my own.”
She nodded almost regretfully, watched him as he went on past her.
Skinner’s door was set in an alcove off the main passage. David knocked, and a dry voice called “Come in, come in.”
A thin, long-necked man with long wispy white hair and a small, neat goatee looked David over as he entered the narrow, book-cluttered room with a window at the far end affording a view across the campus. He waved a cigaret holder toward a chair.
“Sit down, sit down. Not a student, are you? No, not a student. Not the type.” He puffed at the cigaret, blew out smoke, watching David swing the chair around and seat himself. There was a cheerful twinkle in his eyes.
“No, I’m not a student, Professor Skinner. But I was once―about eight years ago.”
Skinner looked sharply at him, cocked his head sideways. “Not a science major,” he said decisively.
“Engineering,” David said.
The professor snapped his fingers, his gold cuff-link catching the fight. “Vincent,” he said. “Vincent, ah, Solomon?”
“David,” he smiled briefly. “David Vincent.”
“Of course. I never forget a face. Though yours has changed, I must say. You’ve seen something of life since I last saw you. I seem to recall―weren’t you in Viet Nam . . . ? Something about a decoration?”
David nodded. “Professor, you’ve read of the meteor swarm that’s about to strike Earth?”
Skinner looked surprised at the abrupt change of subject, then adjusted his expression to one of professorial wisdom. “A contradiction in terms, Mr. Vincent,” he said complacently. “A meteor, by definition, is a body which does not strike the planetary surface―”
“Yes, Professor, I realize that. But it’s my understanding that some of the objects might be drawn into Earth orbit.”
“True enough. However, they will burn up in the atmosphere. There’s no danger, no danger whatever.” He smiled comfortingly.
“Has that been definitely established?” David asked.
Skinner wagged a finger. “You must realize, Mr. Vincent, that most of these bodies are no larger than the head of a pin. Even the most vivid meteorite which you might see streaking across the sky is probably smaller than a pea―and from sixty to two hundred miles above the surface―”
“Yes―but there are exceptions.”
“True,” The professor nodded. “The Johannesburg meteorite, for example, weighed many tons―and of course, Meteor Crater, Arizona―”
“Are the astronomers able to resolve this cloud, determine the size of the individual fragments?”
“Umm. Spectroscopic analysis, plus diffraction techniques are able, to some extent, to determine average particle size. However, as regards meteors of Com-etary origin―”
“Cometary origin?”
“Yes. Most of such showers represent the remnants of former comets. The Andromedes, for example―the group about which you’re concerned―are the fragments of Biela’s Comet, first observed in 1772. Its periodicity was established in 1826, when it was found to follow a typical elliptical orbit, with a period of six years.” Skinner waved his cigaret dramatically. “In the passage of 1832, the comet passed very close to Earth. In 1845―it was seen to break in two! By 1852, the two fragments were very faint, and had separated to over a million miles apart. Thereafter, meteor showers were observed annually in its old path. In 1885, for example, almost 40,000 meteors were observed in the space of a few hours, all radiating from the direction of Andromeda―hence the name.” The professor leaned back, as if awaiting a show of hands.
“You were saying―about the particle size,” David steered the conversation―or lecture―back to the point.
“Oh, yes. As I said, the particles are typically of very small size. The leonids, for example, which were visible earlier this month―”
“I mean specifically in this instance,” David persisted. “Has any attempt been made to check on the size of the objects that might fall on Earth?”
“Hardly necessary, Mr. Vincent,” Skinner said blandly. “Meteor swarms have been observed since ancient times, and the facts regarding them are well known. The Chaldeans, in 2700 BC, recorded the Perseid shower, for example―”
“Suppose there were larger bodies included in the swarm,” David bored on. “Would that fact be apparent from Earth?”
Skinner frowned. “Since the true nature of the swarms has long been known to science, there is no reason to schedule valuable observatory time for the observation of the commonplace, Mr. Vincent,” he said. “Are you aware that the use of the major instruments, such as the two hundred inch reflector at Palomar, is scheduled for years ahead?”
“Then it might be possible that a large body is on its way to Earth.”
“No I Or . . . “ Skinner’s scientific conscience gave him pause. “I suppose in some theoretical sense it’s not a complete impossibility―though I assure you your fears are groundless, Mr. Vincent! Even should a large fragment―even several feet in diameter―strike the earth, it’s highly unlikely that it will impact at the precise point you happen to be occupying!”
“It wasn’t my personal safety I was concerned about, Professor,” David said quietly. “Suppose a multi-ton rock―like the one Peary brought back from the Arctic, for example―impacted in a densely populated area?”
Skinner looked startled. He blinked. “Well―in that case . . . naturally it would be . . . “ his voice trailed off; he looked faintly embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I implied that, er . . . “
“That’s all right. I just want to confirm that, insofar as we know, it’s possible that the swarm includes objects larger than pin-head size.”
“Yes, but . . . yes,” Skinner nodded, looking thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Vincent, it might just be worth having a word with Dr. Shrimpwell . . . “ He reached for the phone, dialled a three digit code, murmured a few words into the instrument.
“He can spare us a few moments now,” the Professor said, standing. “Let’s just pop around to the observatory and lay your fears at rest.”
2
“An interesting question, gentlemen,” Dr. Shrimp-well said expansively, patting his small, round, Santa Claus tummy. “Of course, our small twelve-inch refractor, here at the University, would be quite incapable of resolving anything smaller than the state of Rhode Island at a distance of two and a half million miles―but the matter might interest a colleague of mine at Mt. Wilson. I’ll ring him up, and possibly tonight he can take a look.”
David accepted Skinner’s invitation to lunch at a campus restaurant. Over small steaks and French fries, the professor eyed him speculatively.
“Tell me, Mr. Vincent―just what was it that aroused your inter
est in what, after all, is a purely academic matter? The possibility, as Dr. Shrimpwell pointed out, of any sizable object being found is of the order of one in several billions.”
“Rare enough that if it did show up, it would arouse a certain amount of interest?”
Skinner sighed. “I see you’re determined to resist my efforts to pry. As to the interest it might arouse: I’ll be candid with you, Mr. Vincent. The public has always demonstrated a profound apathy where abstruse scientific matters are concerned.”
“If a large object is spotted, what action will be taken?” David persisted.
“Why―none, officially, I suppose. As Dr. Shrimp-well pointed out, the center of the calculated target area is in the western desert. Perhaps a small party mighty be despatched to record the descent, and possibly search for any fragments which might survive the fall. Usually, of course, particles too large to burn entirely away in the initial seconds explode, due to temperature differential.”
“Who would send such a party?”
“Interested Universities, perhaps. Private research foundations. The observatories. Even newspapers, in need of Sunday Supplement material―”
“What about the Air Force? The Army?”
Skinner gaped at David. “Whatever for?” His expression changed, became wary. “Mr. Vincent―are you suggesting . . . ?”
“I’m suggesting nothing, Professor,” David said flatly. “I’m asking. Just asking.”
3
“Remarkable, Mr. Vincent,” Dr. Shrimpwell said, his expression less jovial now. “I contacted Dr. Rimy colleague. He advised me that the presence of a solid body exceeding ten meters in diameter had already been detected in the Andromedes Swarm. The discovery had been kept in strict secrecy since Wednesday last, for fear that premature disclosure might alarm the public. May I ask how you knew of this―and what action you intend to take now? Are you a journalist? I must caution you, misrepresentation―”
“I misrepresented nothing,” David cut in. “What do they plan to do about this?”