And Having Writ . . .

by Donald R. Bensen

  Oxford gave me an appraising look and, with an inconsequence I found alarming, demanded that I give him some particulars concerning a person who sold sea shells next to the ocean, which I refused to do, not being in any way informed on the matter.

  "It doesn't show much," he said, "but my expert opinion, Mr. Ambassador, is that you're grandly sozzled, and it's time to toddle on home to John Jacob's palace."

  The computerlike speed and precision with which I divined from this string of cant terms the insulting suggestion that the substances I had consumed had altered my mental state was in itself a refutation of the slander, but as I was about to deliver a stinging retort, all the accumulated stresses of our near-fatal arrival on this planet, the uncertainty of both present and future, our travels, encounters and adventures—all these suddenly manifested themselves on my over-strained system, and I lapsed into insensibility.

  8

  The reaction to my accumulated fatigue stayed with me much of the next day, marked by such symptoms as dryness of the mouth, a stabbing pain in the head, and spatial disorientation, and I thus missed much of the immediate excitement surrounding the release of the news of our presence.

  I was aware of Oxford rushing in to where I lay, early in the morning, and waving a copy of a newspaper at me. The front surface was covered with large red letters and marks indicating emphasis, but they vibrated before my eyes, and I was content to accept Oxford's assurance that they announced our arrival and ostensible mission. Apparently the bulk of the paper was given over to material concerning us, prepared by Oxford and Wells, with only the necessary information on sporting events and a page of humorous drawings remaining of the paper's normal contents.

  "Circulation's double normal, and they're fighting for 'em in the streets," Oxford announced happily. "We'll have to throw the others a bone, of course. I've set if up for some of the press fellows to interview you this afternoon; otherwise they'd claim it's all a fake, in spite of the President backing you—but they'll never catch up with us now! William Randolph and Mrs. Oxford's boy Ted have got the inside track for fair! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

  At the thought of granting any interview in my present state, I gave a hollow laugh—which I regretted immediately, as it produced the illusion that the top of my head had suffered explosive decompression. When I pointed this out to Oxford, he looked at me closely and remarked, "Yeah, you're the original Katzenjammer Kid right now, I'd say, home address Hangover Square. What you want is a good, reliable corpse-reviver."

  I gathered that this colorful, if repellent, term denoted a restorative for fatigue, and certainly the dark brown liquid he brought me after consultation with a number of the hotel staff had that effect. The taste was remarkably unpleasant, and it appeared to contain some corrosive substance which acted powerfully on the greater part of my interior surfaces, but I shortly found that my head had stopped pounding and that I was able to move from one point to another with reasonable accuracy and without the necessity of supporting myself on various pieces of furniture.

  All the same, I was conscious of a certain weakness as I faced the group of about twenty reporters who crowded our suite a few hours later. They looked distinctly unfriendly and only begrudgingly impressed by the exotic appearance we made in our own clothing, which Oxford had insisted we resume for the occasion.

  "What kind of fake is Hearst trying to pull off?" one man yelled, and there were approving mutters from some of the others.

  "Before you boys get yourselves out on a limb," Oxford said, "you better have a look at these. Official government medical records, TR's statement, the works." He passed out numerous sheaves of paper, which seemed to impress the reporters, for their angry murmurs died down.

  "This is one of the great news stories of the age," Oxford said, "and I can see you'd be sore, being scooped on it. But Hearst got it first, and that's the breaks of the game. Now he's being square enough to give you all your own chance at it, and I suggest you make the most of it. Gentlemen—and ladies; I see we have a few of you here today—I give you Ambassador Raf, who will tell you in his own words of his immense journey through the wastes of space to this planet and of his mission among us; questions afterward, please."

  I gave them substantially the same account I had contrived for President Roosevelt, but it was received with less friendliness.

  "How do we know you're not scouts for an invasion?" "What so-called benefits are we supposed to get when your masters come here?" "Isn't it true that your people will flood us with cheap labor?" "How does this stuff about life on other worlds square with Scripture?"

  "His paper's for Bryan," Oxford whispered to me of the last speaker. "The Boy Orator's already come out with a statement saying you can't be so because you ain't in the Bible."

  I fear that I did not make a vigorous response to any of these questions, as I still felt quite feeble, and they were fired with such rapidity that there was no time to compose coherent answers. This did not seem to matter much, for each questioner would start scribbling on a piece of paper or notepad he or she held as soon as the query was made, without awaiting any answer. "They know their own paper's line," Oxford muttered again, "so they've already got the story angle they need—it don't really matter that much what you say. Teddy's for you, so the Republican papers'll make you out a cross between the Rover Boys and Andy Carnegie, and the ones that are backing Bryan'll come out for burning you at the stake." I hoped he was jesting.

  Questions of a startling irrelevancy now emerged, and I was asked whether I thought certain giants (a class of being of which I had not been aware) would manage to gain a pennant they were apparently in search of (I suggested that their height ought to allow them to reach it successfully, if it was out of the reach of ordinarily constructed natives, which seemed to be the right response), my opinion of the city's tall buildings and whether I had as yet visited a public monument of some sort which they had placed in the midst of a large body of water.

  "That's the color stuff," Oxford advised me in an undertone. "They use that to make you seem just like everybody else."

  "If they want to portray us as totally ordinary," I whispered to him, "what is the point of writing about us at all?"

  He shrugged. "The whole thing is to persuade the readers that even the most remarkable people, or whatever, are something they can handle. A prince or a king or something, d'you see, they don't cotton to him unless they know he's got tight shoes or likes baseball or eats a hot dog—then they've got something in common, and don't feel they have to shy a half-brick at his head. And believe me, you fellows need all—oh, oh. You better field the sob sister's spitball pretty smartly: she's a flaming suffragette."

  A female native was waving energetically at me.

  "Mr. Ambassador!" she called in a strident voice. "You have told us nothing of life on your world. Is there equality of the sexes, as there should be in an advanced civilization? What in fact is the position of women there?"

  I confess that I had not anticipated questions relating to a life which now seemed so long ago and far away, and, for a moment, I was at a loss as to how to reply. Dark, who with my two other companions had been standing behind me, stepped forward, evidently tired of his subordinate role in the proceedings. "I think I can say something about that," he said. "Wells has been discussing the matter with me pretty thoroughly—it's the kind of thing he goes in for—and—" Wells, his face scarlet, plucked at Dark's sleeve, but was shaken off. "—I've got a lot of things pretty clear in my mind that I'd sort of forgotten, what with all that time I've spent in space. Now, as to the position of women among us, there are a number of them. My own favorite—"

  He then gave a succinct description of certain of our folk's standard mating practices. The woman who had requested this information did not seem at all happy to have received it, for she turned white, swayed, and appeared about to lose her equilibrium. A man next to her took her arm to steady her, but she wrenched herself free and made a gesture as if to s
trike him with her writing instrument. The reactions of the other reporters included awe, hilarity, and dismay; several took notes on pieces of paper other than those they were using to prepare their stories.

  "Boys," one of them said after a moment, "my paper's got a motto about all the news that's fit to print, and I think we have now come past that point. I don't know that I could keep my hand steady enough to write anything more down just now. Thanks, Oxford, Mr. Ambassador; I guess we've had enough."

  It was another example of how much we had to learn about this culture that I was surprised that it took so long for the results of the interview to become available; taking into account the widespread use of electricity, I had expected some sort of viewing of the news to commence almost immediately. However, I learned from Oxford that this was not the case and that the appearance of what he called "Extras" from all the newspapers within only a few hours marked an extraordinary effort.

  It was certainly remarkable that they had managed to print so much based on the skimpy material the reporters had gathered, but Oxford assured me that this was a specialty of the craft, and not to be wondered at. Many journals contained highly imaginative drawings of the four of us, some of humorous intent. One showed us, ludicrously out of scale, grouped at the top of the planet and looking down at its surface. Dark was highly amused by the printed line underneath, which represented one or all of us as saying, "It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there." I myself found it a distressing reminder of our situation.

  "Ah," Oxford said with satisfaction, pausing in his rapid survey of the newspapers. "I was looking for this. This fellow's stuff goes down awfully well with the public, and if he's written you up, they'll be ready to believe you're okay."

  He passed a page to me, indicating an item. There seemed, as I read, to be an element in the writing I had not yet encountered, though I could not be sure what it was. "These gents have come from outer space," it began, "to visit this poor human race, and, truth to tell, they're not so weird or sinister as might be feared. They seem like ordinary folks, and one of them likes risky jokes (at least we hope the guy was joking). Their presence sets old Gotham smoking—what they're doing, what they want, what they can do, what they can't, are things that no one knows for sure (we note not all their thoughts are pure!) . . ." There was more in the same vein, which I found hard to follow.

  As Oxford had predicted, reactions differed according to the politics of the papers' owners. Readers of a journal favoring Bryan in the coming election might well receive the impression that we constituted a menace to civilization and to religion; one such suggested that since their cult considered Earth the spiritual center of the Universe, without making provision for the existence of life elsewhere, we must be regarded as supernormal manifestations of powers inimical to the cult, and that harsh measures toward us might be appropriate.

  An opposing paper presented to its readers a glowingly optimistic account of the benefits to be expected once full contact with our supposed Empire was established, and called for what it referred to as an "Open Door Policy" toward space.

  A journal called The Times contained a piece which made Oxford raise his eyebrows. "This'll get some backs up," he said. "Listen: 'With the coming of these ambassadors, so like us in appearance and behavior, yet emissaries of a realm unimaginably far and strange, a new age has opened for humanity. It is an irony of history that this has happened in the waning days of Mr. Roosevelt's presidency, for the vigor and breadth of vision which even his opponents have respected would have meant much to the nation in the dealings with the astronauts. Whatever the virtues of the two contenders for the office, it cannot be said that either has demonstrated any qualities which will be outstandingly useful in handling a situation so utterly without precedent in history.' "

  Oxford set the paper down and looked at Wells. "True enough," he said. "If a problem can't be solved by Bible-thumping and orating, it ain't up Bryan's alley. And Taft did all right pacifying the Philippines, but it's not the same thing. In fact, come to think of it, we're the little brown brothers in this setup. I guess there's a lot of people going to be wishing it was Teddy running again, not those two. And I'm not sure I'm not one of them."

  "I wish I could disagree with you," Wells said thoughtfully. "I really prefer to look at history as being determined by large-scale things, such as science and invention, economics and so on—the whole business of making out that it's the fights between kings and such that's important irritates me. It's damned sloppy thinking, and is responsible for more . . . well, never mind that. But I have to say that this does seem to be an age of accidentally important men. Your President's one of them—I'm sure the history of the last eight years would have been different without him in office—and there are others. I can't imagine, for instance, anyone else affecting Germany the way the Kaiser has; without him on the throne, things would be quite different. It's an odd thought, you know, the changes one different circumstance could make. It might be rather amusing to work out what might happen if just one thing in history had gone differently. Say the South in this country had won the Civil War. Then the whole business of the transcontinental railroad, the colonization of the Midwest, the destruction of the Indians, would never have happened. Instead of a world power, the United States would have been a moderate-sized republic, secondary in influence perhaps to Brazil or Canada, with the hegemony of the northern continent falling to the Confederacy, with its strong European ties. That's the thing," he went on animatedly, his bulbous eyes shining. "It's almost like a chemistry experiment—make one change and, if you, know what's involved, you can see what would or should or might or could happen as a consequence. And the thing is, if you make that one change—you don't need others—things are bound to happen. It wouldn't be . . . what? That's it"—he gestured with his right hand, occasioning the loss of some portion of the fluid restorative he held in a glass—"elegant, that's the word, otherwise. Slip one change into the equation and see how the rest all balances out; add one or two more, and there you are with the three-body problem, and who wants that, I ask you? I may do a piece on that for one of the papers, so I don't want you fellows pinching the idea in advance and flogging it to Frank Leslie's or Collier's. That's it; put in one change, and the most fantastic upshots will start shooting up. Next thing you know, given the right single change, Lord Alfred Douglas might be crowned Queen in Westminster Abbey, not that he isn't about halfway there already. What a marvelous idea!"

  Ari, Dark and I looked toward Valmis, who appeared agitated at this unwitting echo of his obsession from a being who, in Valmis's view, was himself inhabiting a continuum created by just such an altered circumstance. Valmis seemed on the point of speaking to Wells, but Dark stepped between them and Ari spoke up. "Ah, yes, Wells, you were telling me something of the, um, Kaiser, was it? Most interesting, most; and I'd appreciate it if we might continue. We may leave looking through these tedious newspapers to Raf and Mr. Oxford." He drew Wells to a far corner of the room.

  "Now, you shut up about this nonsense," Dark muttered to Valmis. "It's bad enough some of 'em think we're demons or some such. If you go prattling about how your mythical machine created 'em or split 'em off or whatever it is, they'll lock us up as lunatics if they don't believe you, or put us in that chair of Edison's if they do!"

  Valmis nodded resignedly, and I felt safe in returning to Oxford and the newspapers. With a little effort, I might be able to puzzle out the significance of that curiously cadenced news story.

  9

  The President appeared more vigorous and buoyant than when we had last seen him. He crossed his office and extended his hand to each of us in turn, saying, "It's bully to see you gentlemen again, just bully! By George, you've stirred things up, haven't you?"

  Behind me, Oxford whispered, "That stuff about dumping Taft's got to him, all right."

  The details of the trip which was to introduce us to such of the American nation as chose to notice us, and them to us, had
been worked out by discussion among the presidential officials and Oxford, and it had been agreed that the journey should start with an official meeting with Mr. Roosevelt in Washington. It seemed to me a strange proceeding, as Roosevelt, in common with the greater part of those involved in the government, had fled the capital to avoid the damp heat and noxious vapors of summer a day or so after his second private interview with us, and was now ensconced in his family home about twenty miles from New York City; but it was felt to be vital that images for reproduction in the newspapers be taken of us in front of the White House, and so he and our party had traveled, though separately, for several hours on the trains for the encounter.

  "Well, I don't mind telling you that I'm taking a good deal more interest in these proceedings right now," the President said jauntily. "I believe it may be that you people and I will have a lot to discuss in a few months. It's a little early to talk about formal treaties, of course, but I think we all might be keeping in the backs of our minds what's involved. We'd want, for one thing, to work out what sort of guarantees—"

  At this point, his secretary, Mr. Loeb, entered with a whispered word for his chief, much as he had done just before the incursion of Mr. Morgan and Mr. Edison previously.

  "Well, I . . ." the President said uncertainly.

  "He says it's urgent, Mr. President."

  "Well, I can't just . . . it's difficult, but, yes, I suppose you'd better . . ." He gestured impatiently, and Loeb left. "I think I know what this is," he muttered, looking at Oxford over his pince-nez. "Guess you do, too. There's been talk going around . . ."

  Mr. Taft entered the office, fairly shaking the floor with his tread. "Theodore—Mr. President," he said, "I've . . . they've been to talk to me." He sank into a chair, which quivered for an instant, but held firm. "The party bigwigs, and Cannon, you know, plus a couple of Senators. They . . . they . . ."