Invaders of Earth

by Groff Conklin

  In May of 1977 thirty-five million employables were out of work; in October, fifteen million; by May of 1978, five million. By 1979 the situation was completely in hand and competitive demand was already beginning to raise wages.

  The third board had the most difficult job of the three. It was called the Factory Readjustment Bureau. It coped with the stupendous task of converting factories filled with electrically operated machinery and, for the most part, tooled for the production of other electrically operated machinery, over for the production, without electricity, of essential nonelectrical articles.

  The few available stationary steam engines worked twenty-four hour shifts in those early days, and the first thing they were given to do was the running of lathes and stompers and planers and millers working on turning out more stationary steam engines, of all sizes. These, in turn, were first put to work making still more steam engines. The number of steam engines grew by squares and cubes, as did the number of horses put to stud. The principle was the same. One might, and many did, refer to those early steam engines as stud horses. At any rate, there was no lack of metal for them. The factories were filled with nonconvertible machinery waiting to be melted down.

  Only when steam engines-the basis of the new factory economy-were in full production, were they assigned to running machinery for the manufacture of other articles. Oil lamps, clothing, coal stoves, oil stoves, bathtubs and bedsteads.

  Not quite all of the big factories were converted. For while the conversion period went on, individual handicrafts sprang up in thousands of places. Little one- and two-man shops making and repairing furniture, shoes, candles, all sorts of things that could be made without complex machinery. At first these small shops made small fortunes because they had no competition from heavy industry. Later, they bought small steam engines to run small machines and held their own, growing with the boom that came with a return to normal employment and buying power, increasing gradually in size until many of them rivaled the bigger factories in output and beat them in quality.

  There was suffering, during the period of economic readjustment, but less than there had been during the great depression of the early thirties. And the recovery was quicker.

  The reason was obvious: In combating the depression, the legislators were working in the dark. They didn’t know its cause-rather, they knew a thousand conflicting theories of its cause-and they didn’t know the cure. They were hampered by the idea that the thing was temporary and would cure itself if left alone. Briefly and frankly, they didn’t know what it was all about and while they experimented, it snowballed.

  But the situation that faced the country-and all other countries-in 1977 was clear-cut and obvious. No more electricity. Readjust for steam and horsepower.

  As simple and clear as that, and no ifs or ands or buts. And the whole people-except for the usual scattering of cranks-back of them.

  By 1981--

  It was a rainy day in April and George Bailey was waiting under the sheltering roof of the little railroad station at Blakestown, Connecticut, to see who might come in on the 3:14.

  It chugged in at 3:25 and came to a panting stop, three coaches and a baggage car. The baggage car door opened and a sack of mail was handed out and the door closed again. No luggage, so probably no passengers would

  Then at the sight of a tall dark man swinging down from the platform of the rear coach, George Bailey let out a yip of delight. “Pete! Pete Mulvaney! What the devil-”

  “Bailey, by all that’s holy! What are you doing here?”

  George wrung Pete’s hand. “Me? I live here. Two years now. I bought the Blakestown Weekly in ‘79, for a song, and I run it-editor, reporter, and janitor. Got one printer to help me out with that end, and Maisie does the social items. She’s-”

  “Maisie? Maisie Hetterman?”

  “Maisie Bailey now. We got married same time I bought the paper and moved here. What are you doing here, Pete?”

  “Business. Just here overnight. See a man named Wilcox.”

  “Oh, Wilcox. Our local screwball-but don’t get me wrong; he’s a smart guy all right. Well, you can see him tomorrow. You’re coming home with me now, for dinner and to stay overnight. Maisie’ll be glad to see you. Come on, my buggy’s over here.”

  “Sure. Finished whatever you were here for?”

  “Yep, just to pick up the news on who came in on the train. And you came in, so here we go.”

  They got in the buggy, and George picked up the reins and said, “Giddup, Bessie,” to the mare. Then, “What are you doing now, Pete?”

  “Research. For a gas supply company. Been working on a more efficient mantle, one that’ll give more light and be less destructible. This fellow Wilcox wrote us he had something along that line; the company sent me up to look it over. If it’s what he claims, I’ll take him back to New York with me, and let the company lawyers dicker with him.”

  “How’s business, otherwise?”

  “Great, George. Gas; that’s the coming thing. Every new home’s being piped for it, and plenty of the old ones. How about you?”

  “We got it. Luckily we had one of the old Linotypes that ran the metal pot off a gas burner, so it was already piped in. And our home is right over the office and print shop, so all we had to do was pipe it up a flight. Great stuff, gas. How’s New York?”

  “Fine, George. Down to its last million people, and stabilizing there. No crowding and plenty of room for everybody. The air-why, it’s better than Atlantic City, without gasoline fumes.”

  “Enough horses to go around yet?”

  “Almost. But bicycling’s the craze; the factories can’t turn out enough to meet the demand. There’s a cycling club in almost every block and all the able-bodied cycle to and from work. Doing ‘em good, too; a few more years and the doctors will go on short rations.”

  “You got a bike?”

  “Sure, a pre-vader one. Average five miles a day on it, and I eat like a horse.”

  George Bailey chuckled. “I’ll have Maisie include some hay in the dinner. Well, here we are. Whoa, Bessie.”

  An upstairs window went up, and Maisie looked out and down. She called out, “Hi, Pete!”

  “Extra plate, Maisie,” George called. “We’ll be up soon as I put the horse away and show Pete around downstairs.”

  He led Pete from the barn into the back door of the newspaper shop. “Our Linotype!” he announced proudly, pointing.

  “How’s it work? Where’s your steam engine?”

  George grinned. “Doesn’t work yet; we still hand set the type. I could get only one steamer and had to use that on the press. But I’ve got one on order for the Lino, and coming up in a month or so. When we get it, Pop Jenkins, my printer, is going to put himself out of a job teaching me to run it. With the Linotype going, I can handle the whole thing myself.”

  “Kind of rough on Pop?”

  George shook his head. “Pop eagerly awaits the day. He’s sixty-nine and wants to retire. He’s just staying on until I can do without him. Here’s the press--a honey of a little Miehle; we do some job work on it, too. And this is the office, in front. Messy, but efficient.”

  Mulvaney looked around him and grinned. “George, I believe you’ve found your niche. You were cut out for a small-town editor.”

  “Cut out for it? I’m crazy about it. I have more fun than everybody. Believe it or not, I work like a dog, and like it. Come on upstairs.”

  On the stairs, Pete asked, “And the novel you were going to write?”

  “Half done, and it isn’t bad. But it isn’t the novel I was going to write; I was a cynic then. Now-”

  “George, I think the waveries were your best friends.”

  “Waveries?”

  “Lord, how long does it take slang to get from New York out to the sticks? The vaders. of course. Some professor who specializes in studying them described one as a wavery place in the ether, and `wavery’ stuck-Hello there, Maisie, my girl. You look like a million.”

/>   They ate leisurely. Almost apologetically, George brought out beer, in cold bottles. “Sorry, Pete, haven’t anything stronger to offer you. But I haven’t been drinking lately. Guess-”

  “You on the wagon, George?”

  “Not on the wagon, exactly. Didn’t swear off or anything, but haven’t had a drink of strong liquor in almost a year. I don’t know why, but-”

  “I do,” said Pete Mulvaney. “I know exactly why you don’t-because I don’t drink much either, for the same reason. We don’t drink because we don’t have to-say, isn’t that a radio over there?”

  George chuckled. “A souvenir. Wouldn’t sell it for a fortune. Once in a while I like to look at it and think of the awful guff I used to sweat out for it. And then I go over and click the switch and nothing happens. Just silence. Silence is the most wonderful thing in the world, sometimes, Pete. Of course I couldn’t do that if there was any juice, because I’d get vaders then. I suppose they’re still doing business at the same old stand?”

  “Yep, the Research Bureau checks daily. Try to get up current with a little generator run by a steam turbine. But no dice; the vaders suck it up as fast as it’s generated.”

  “Suppose they’ll ever go away?”

  Mulvaney shrugged. “Helmetz thinks not. He thinks they propagate in proportion to the available electricity. Even if the development of radio broadcasting somewhere else in the Universe would attract them there, some would stay here-and multiply like flies the minute we tried to use electricity again. And meanwhile, they’ll live on the static electricity in the air. What do you do evenings up here?”

  “Do? Read, write, visit with one another, go to the amateur groups-Maisie’s chairman of the Blakestown Players, and I play bit parts in it. With the movies out everybody goes in for theatricals and we’ve found some real talent. And there’s the chess-and-checker club, and cycle trips and picnics-there isn’t time enough. Not to mention music. Everybody plays an instrument, or is trying to.”

  “You?”

  “Sure, cornet. First cornet in the Silver Concert Band, with solo parts. And-Good Heavens! Tonight’s rehearsal, and we’re giving a concert Sunday afternoon. I hate to desert you, but-”

  “Can’t I come around and sit in? I’ve got my flute in the brief case here, and-”

  “Flute? We’re short on flutes. Bring that around and Si Perkins, our director, will practically shanghai you into staying over for the concert Sunday and it’s only three days, so why not? And get it out now; we’ll play a few old timers to warm up. Hey, Maisie, skip those dishes and come on in to the piano!”

  While Pete Mulvaney went to the guest room to get his flute from the brief case, George Bailey picked up his cornet from the top of the piano and blew a soft, plaintive little minor run on it. Clear as a bell; his lip was in good shape tonight.

  And with the shining silver thing in his hand he wandered over to the window and stood looking out into the night. It was dusk out and the rain had stopped.

  A high-stepping horse clop-clopped by and the bell of a bicycle jangled. Somebody across the street was strumming a guitar and singing. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  The scent of spring was soft and wet in the moist air. Peace and dusk.

  Distant rolling thunder.

  God damn it, he thought, if only there was a bit of lightning.

  He missed the lightning.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  Edward Grendon

  CRISIS

  Well, you have had the invasion for Conquest by Force, the invasion for Conquest by Infiltration, the invasion for Guidance, the accidental invasion for repairs or other succor, the invasion for . . . oh, lots of other things.

  Here you have an invasion that has none of these motives. It is a formal invasion, full of panoply and protocol, small in size (ambassadorial rather than military), but most impressive, and complete with creatures that are at least quasi-BEMS even though their eyes don’t bug out. And Earth is fully prepared to receive them.

  What all these efforts and preparations lead to, you will have to find out for yourself. We suspect you will feel pretty savagely cut down to size by the time you have come to the tale’s ending.

  ~ * ~

  BY 1980 the balance had shifted. The progress of the physical sciences had by no means stopped, but it had slowed considerably. The social sciences, on the other hand, had moved ahead with unexpected speed. The integration between academic and therapeutic psychology had been the first step; the rest followed quickly. When the final rapprochement between psychoanalysis and neurology was made, there existed, for the first time, a comprehensive theory of behavior, not only of human beings and animals but of other—so far theoretical—nervous systems as well. Just as the mathematicians were able to postulate geometries that existed in no known Universe when they were first devised, the psychologists were now able to postulate non-Terran behavior systems.—Saevolies, John. The History of Thought in the Modern World, World Press, 1998.

  ~ * ~

  Woodward looked at his graphs for the last time. They eliminated a few possibilities and indicated a good probability that three were valid. Some fifty-seven other vectors were possible but not probable, and in a very few minutes he had to recommend a definite course of action on the basis of them. A recommendation that was almost certain to be accepted.

  Briefly, he considered going over the protocols again and discarded the idea. If he had been able to get no more conclusive results with the aid of his entire staff, he would get none now. If only he had proof to back up the certainty he felt! Intuitively, he was positive which possibility was the correct one; scientifically, he could prove nothing. He stood up, placed a file envelope under his arm, and walked out to the coffee bar.

  The council chairman called the meeting to order and waited until the four hundred delegates became quiet. When he spoke it was in a tired, quiet voice.

  “At this special meeting, gentlemen, we will dispense with the minutes and the usual formalities. You all know our subject. We are here to consider the ‘Voice,’ as the aliens have come to be known. To recapitulate briefly, we first heard of them when most radio communication was interrupted thirty-six days ago. A voice speaking good English with a rather high-pitched tone broke in. It introduced itself as a visitor from a nearby star system, without giving a precise location. It stated that, with our permission, an ambassador was to be sent to Earth to see if we were developed enough for intercourse with other highly developed races. It asked that this ambassador be allowed a visit of three weeks with a typical Earth family rather than be shown over the whole planet. Specifications were given as to the type of signal we should set up for landing purposes and the date of landing, if we wished to accede. That date is now two weeks off.

  “We have had three separate teams working on an analysis of the message. The chief of each team will now tell you his recommendation. They are Mr. Woodward, of the International Psychological Association team; Mr. Jelfiffe, of the team of the Society of Human Engineers; and Mr. Dever, of the team of the Federation of Social Sciences. We recognize the difficulty of their task and the speculative nature of their results which are, however, the best we have. Mr. Dever.”

  The gangling, weary man with the sensitive scholar’s face stood up at the right of the president.

  “All we can make is a good guess. We believe the alien to possess a nervous system of Cantor’s Class 4 type. This means an organism who acts warily, plans far in advance, and is too rigid to do anything but retreat quickly or strike out spasmodically when its predictions are inaccurate. It would tend to have a strong ethical system applied to the in-group, and no concern with organisms not members of the ingroup. If frustrations imposed on it are expected, it retreats; if unexpected, it attacks. Since it will be unable to predict clearly the course of development of human beings, it is more than liable to feel frustration and to become hostile and aggressive. We recommend refusal of permission to land and signaling that
we will not be ready for relations with extraterrestrial groups for at least one hundred years. The aliens almost certainly see this as a possible reply and are most likely to withdraw for that time. At the end of that period we can re-evaluate the situation.”

  He sat down and buried his face in his hands. Those who knew him realized what he had lost. Dever, who had sought after knowledge from childhood, who had spent his life at research, who had the most insatiable of all desires, the hunger to know, had foregone the vast store of ideas and concepts the aliens would have provided. He had followed the logic of his science to its inexorable end, and the result was bitter for him.

  After a long minute the president said, “Mr. Jelfiffe,” and Eli Jelfiffe stood up—a serious, intent man who had made great contributions in the application of social science to the social system. A good speaker, his voice was clear and carried through the hall without the need for the microphone.