by Various
"You said it. I'd have felt guilty if there'd been any casualties."
"What do you suppose went wrong?"
"You got me. What do you think they'll do to old Blair?"
"I don't know, but it looks pretty bad. They refused to let him out on bail."
"Serves him right. The way he treated us."
"You've got it wrong. He treated us swell. He did us a big favor. We could have been blamed for this."
Bill thought it over before saying, "I guess you're right. I hadn't looked at it that way."
"Let's go home and get to work on the leather solution."
So they did.
* * *
Contents
SUCH BLOOMING TALK
By L. Major Reynolds
Henderson's lovely flowers were going to bring him fame--until they walked and talked too much.
The ringing of the door bell cut into Henderson's concentration and he made a gesture of irritation with one outflung hand. But he didn't raise his head or shift his eyes one iota from the tiny green thing on his laboratory table. Tensely absorbed, he stood watching the small miracle he had made and emotion approaching exultation gripped him.
He slid one hand toward a switch, never moving his eyes from the table. The infinitesimal movement of his hand increased the power throb in the machine at his side so imperceptibly that only he could be aware of it.
Suddenly his breath exploded in what was almost a squeal of delight.
The small green plant on the table was with great effort extending a pair of tiny rootlets and was trying to use them to walk!
As Henderson watched, spellbound, the sudden cessation of the doorbell's ring went unnoticed. He stood there, willing with every cell of his body the miracle that would make that small shred of green take the first vital step.
Slowly, slowly it struggled to an upright position, stood wavering. Henderson increased the power with a trembling hand and almost forgot to breathe as he waited for the miracle which followed.
Several more rootlets abruptly appeared, and now the plant balanced itself easily on the bare table. Then slowly, as a long minute passed, one of the roots made an uncertain step, then another and another, until it was walking unsteadily across the surface of the table!
Henderson, his face--even his lips--white with excitement, now reached for another switch. Before turning it on he adjusted a tiny microphone on the edge of the table. Then he turned the screw switch ...
Instantaneously the laboratory was filled with a rustling. Then there came a series of tiny squeaks that sounded strangely like a voice speaking. Henderson sat spellbound, watching, listening ...
The door bell rang again, but this time he didn't even hear it. Nothing could break the spell which held him in his seat before the first talking and walking plant the world had ever known.
He picked up an alternate phase microphone and spoke into it. His voice issued from a tiny speaker beside the plant as a small whisper of itself.
"Man!" his voice whispered, "Man!" He nearly yelled his delight as the small green thing echoed the word!
He shut off the mike, then, and got busy. He sat down and began to plan a vocabulary to educate his plant. When that was done he would stun the world with a demonstration of his genius ...
It was some time before he realized there was a ghost of a voice coming from someplace in the room. He looked at the plant on the table, but it was standing quiescent.
Henderson stared around the laboratory, frowning. Then a movement at the window caught his eye.
His mother's prize geranium was struggling to free itself from the soil in the window box! And it was muttering! Henderson blushed as he made out some of the words the flower was muttering. That plant had been in the room with him during some of his most dismal scientific failures, and it evidently had a good memory. He watched wild-eyed as the plant struggled to lift its roots from the earth ...
One root finally came loose with an audible POP, accompanied by a squeaking streak of profanity. Another and another root worked free, and suddenly the geranium was standing on the edge of the box. Its bright red blossom turned from side to side. There were no eyes visible but Henderson had the chilly feeling that the flower was surveying the room. Then, after a moment, the plant jumped to the sill of the window, from there to the seat of a chair. Then it slid down one of the legs of the chair to the floor.
It shook its leaves, lifted its blossom upward at the amazed Henderson frozen in his chair, and the tiny squeaking voice said cheerily, "Hi, Pal!" Then it started walking across the floor, toward the door, muttering, "Somebody's got to answer that damned door bell."
Henderson's legs came unfroze as it went through the doorway and he made a wild dash after the walking geranium. It was padding down the hall, its roots making little patting sounds on the linoleum as he passed it.
Henderson opened the door, and only then did he begin to realize the scope his rays must have!
He stood, jaws agape, looking down at the rose-bush which stood outside the door. His mouth opened and words tried to come out. But the bush spoke first.
"I've been ringing this bell for hours," it said petulantly. "Some nasty boys have been picking my roses and I'm getting sore!"
Henderson fainted then, and the last thing he remembered was the voice of the geranium saying:
"Hi, Babe, come on in. I been watching you for a long time!"
* * *
Contents
COMBAT
By Mack Reynolds
An Alien landing on Earth might be readily misled, victimized by a one-sided viewpoint.
And then again ... it might be the Earthmen who were misled....
* * * * *
Henry Kuran answered a nod here and there, a called out greeting from a desk an aisle removed from the one along which he was progressing, finally made the far end of the room. He knocked at the door and pushed his way through before waiting a response.
There were three desks here. He didn't recognize two of the girls who looked up at his entry. One of them began to say something, but then Betty, whose desk dominated the entry to the inner sanctum, grinned a welcome at him and said, "Hank! How was Peru? We've been expecting you."
"Full of Incas," he grinned back. "Incas, Russkies and Chinks. A poor capitalist conquistador doesn't have a chance. Is the boss inside?"
"He's waiting for you, Hank. See you later."
Hank said, "Um-m-m," and when the door clicked in response to the button Betty touched, pushed his way into the inner office.
Morton Twombly, chief of the department, came to his feet, shook hands abruptly and motioned the other to a chair.
"How're things in Peru, Henry?" His voice didn't express too much real interest.
Hank said, "We were on the phone just a week ago, Mr. Twombly. It's about the same. No, the devil it is. The Chinese have just run in their new People's Car. They look something like our jeep station-wagons did fifteen years ago."
Twombly stirred in irritation. "I've heard about them."
Hank took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and polished his rimless glasses. He said evenly, "They sell for just under two hundred dollars."
"Two hundred dollars?" Twombly twisted his face. "They can't transport them from China for that."
"Here we go again," Hank sighed. "They also can't sell pressure cookers for a dollar apiece, nor cameras with f.2 lenses for five bucks. Not to speak of the fact that the Czechs can't sell shoes for fifty cents a pair and, of course, the Russkies can't sell premium gasoline for five cents a gallon."
Twombly muttered, "They undercut our prices faster than we can vote through new subsidies. Where's it going to end Henry?"
"I don't know. Perhaps we should have thought a lot more about it ten or fifteen years ago when the best men our universities could turn out went into advertising, show business and sales--while the best men the Russkies and Chinese could turn out were going into science and industry." As a man who worked in the field Hank Kuran
occasionally got bitter about these things, and didn't mind this opportunity of sounding off at the chief.
Hank added, "The height of achievement over there is to be elected to the Academy of Sciences. Our young people call scientists egg-heads, and their height of achievement is to become a TV singer or a movie star."
Morton Twombly shot his best field man a quick glance. "You sound as though you need a vacation, Henry."
Henry Kuran laughed. "Don't mind me, chief. I got into a hassle with the Hungarians last week and I'm in a bad frame of mind."
Twombly said, "Well, we didn't bring you back to Washington for a trade conference."
"I gathered that from your wire. What am I here for?"
Twombly pushed his chair back and came to his feet. It occurred to Hank Kuran that his chief had aged considerably since the forming of this department nearly ten years ago. The thought went through his mind, a general in the cold war. A general who's been in action for a decade, has never won more than a skirmish and is currently in full retreat.
Morton Twombly said, "I'm not sure I know. Come along."
They left the office by a back door and Hank was in unknown territory. Silently his chief led him through busy corridors, each one identical to the last, each sterile and cold in spite of the bustling. They came to a marine guarded door, were passed through, once again obviously expected.
The inner office contained but one desk occupied by a youthfully brisk army major. He gave Hank a one-two of the eyes and said, "Mr. Hennessey is expecting you, sir. This is Mr. Kuran?"
"That's correct," Twombly said. "I won't be needed." He turned to Hank Kuran. "I'll see you later, Henry." He shook hands.
Hank frowned at him. "You sound as though I'm being sent off to Siberia, or something."
The major looked up sharply, "What was that?"
Twombly made a motion with his hand, negatively. "Nothing. A joke. I'll see you later, Henry." He turned and left.
The major opened another door and ushered Hank into a room two or three times the size of Twombly's office. Hank formed a silent whistle and then suddenly knew where he was. This was the sanctum sanctorum of Sheridan Hennessey. Sheridan Hennessey, right arm, hatchetman, alter ego, one man brain trust--of two presidents in succession.
And there he was, seated in a heavy armchair. Hank had known of his illness, that the other had only recently risen from his hospital bed and against doctor's orders. But somehow he hadn't expected to see him this wasted. TV and newsreel cameramen had been kind.
However, the waste had not as yet extended to either eyes or voice. Sheridan Hennessey bit out, "That'll be all, Roy," and the major left them.
* * * * *
"Sit down," Hennessey said. "You're Henry Kuran. That's not a Russian name is it?"
Hank found a chair. "It was Kuranchov. My father Americanized it when he was married." He added, "About once every six months some Department of Justice or C.I.A. joker runs into the fact that my name was originally Russian and I'm investigated all over again."
Hennessey said, "But your Russian is perfect?"
"Yes, sir. My mother was English-Irish, but we lived in a community with quite a few Russian born emigrants. I learned the language."
"Good, Mr. Kuran, how would you like to die for your country?"
Hank Kuran looked at him for a long moment. He said slowly, "I'm thirty-two years old, healthy and reasonably adjusted and happy. I'd hate it."
The sick man snorted. "That's exactly the right answer. I don't trust heroes. Now, how much have you heard about the extraterrestrials?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You haven't heard the news broadcasts the past couple of days? How the devil could you have missed them?" Hennessey was scowling sourly at him.
Hank Kuran didn't know what the other was talking about. "Two days ago I was in the town of Machu Picchu in the Andes trying to peddle some mining equipment to the Peruvians. Peddle it, hell. I was practically trying to give it away, but it was still even-steven that the Hungarians would undersell me. Then I got a hurry-up wire from Morton Twombly to return to Washington soonest. I flew here in an Air Force jet. I haven't heard any news for two days or more."
"I'll have the major get you all the material we have to date and you can read it on the plane to England."
"Plane to England?" Hank said blankly. "Look, I'm in the Department of Economic Development of Neutral Nations, specializing in South America. What would I be doing in England?" He had an uneasy feeling of being crowded, and a suspicion that this was far from the first time Sheridan Hennessey had ridden roughshod over subordinates.
"First step on the way to Moscow," Hennessey snapped. "The major will give you details later. Let me brief you. The extraterrestrials landed a couple of days ago on Red Square in some sort of spaceship. Our Russkie friends clamped down a censorship on news. No photos at all as yet and all news releases have come from Tass."
Hank Kuran was bug-eying him.
Hennessey said, "I know. Most of the time I don't believe it myself. The extraterrestrials represent what the Russkies are calling a Galactic Confederation. So far as we can figure out, there is some sort of league, United Planets, or whatever you want to call it, of other star systems which have achieved a certain level of scientific development."
"Well ... well, why haven't they shown up before?"
"Possibly they have, through the ages. If so, they kept their presence secret, checked on our development and left." Hennessey snorted his indignation. "See here, Kuran, I have no details. All of our information comes from Tass, and you can imagine how inadequate that is. Now shut up while I tell you what little I do know."
Henry Kuran settled back into his chair, feeling limp. He'd had too many curves thrown at him in the past few minutes to assimilate.
"They evidently keep hands off until a planet develops interplanetary exploration and atomic power. And, of course, during the past few years our Russkie pals have not only set up a base on the Moon but have sent off their various expeditions to Venus and Mars."
"None of them made it," Hank said.
"Evidently they didn't have to. At any rate, the plenipotentiaries from the Galactic Confederation have arrived."
"Wanting what, sir?" Hank said.
"Wanting nothing but to help." Hennessey said. "Stop interrupting. Our time is limited. You're going to have to be on a jet for London in half an hour."
He noticed Hank Kuran's expression, and shook his head. "No, it's not farfetched. These other intelligent life forms must be familiar with what it takes to progress to the point of interplanetary travel. It takes species aggressiveness--besides intelligence. And they must have sense enough not to want the wrong kind of aggressiveness exploding into the stars. They don't want an equivalent of Attila bursting over the borders of the Roman Empire. They want to channel us, and they're willing to help, to direct our comparatively new science into paths that won't conflict with them. They want to bring us peacefully into their society of advanced life forms."
Sheridan Hennessey allowed himself a rueful grimace. "That makes quite a speech, doesn't it? At any rate, that's the situation."
"Well, where do I come into this? I'm afraid I'm on the bewildered side."
"Yes. Well, damn it, they've landed in Moscow. They've evidently assumed the Soviet complex--the Soviet Union, China and the satellites--are the world's dominant power. Our conflicts, our controversies, are probably of little, if any, interest to them. Inadvertently, they've put a weapon in the hands of the Soviets that could well end this cold war we've been waging for more than twenty-five years now."
The president's right-hand man looked off into a corner of the room, unseeingly. "For more than a decade it's been a bloodless combat that we've been waging against the Russkies. The military machines, equally capable of complete destruction of the other, have been stymied Finally it's boiled down to an attempt to influence the neutrals, India, Africa, South America, to attempt to bring them into one camp or the ot
her. Thus far, we've been able to contain them in spite of their recent successes. But given the prestige of being selected the dominant world power by the extraterrestrials and in possession of the science and industrial know-how from the stars, they'll have won the cold war over night."
His old eyes flared. "You want to know where you come in, eh? Fine. Your job is to get to these Galactic Confederation emissaries and put a bug in their bonnet. Get over to them that there's more than one major viewpoint on this planet. Get them to investigate our side of the matter."
"Get to them how? If the Russkies--"
Hennessey was tired. The flash of spirit was fading. He lifted a thin hand. "One of my assistants is crossing the Atlantic with you. He'll give you the details."
"But why me? I'm strictly a--"
"You're an unknown in Europe. Never connected with espionage. You speak Russian like a native. Morton Twombly says you're his best man. Your records show that you can think on your feet, and that's what we need above all."
Hank Kuran said flatly, "You might have asked for volunteers."
"We did. You, you and you. The old army game," Hennessey said wearily. "Mr. Kuran, we're in the clutch. We can lose, forever--right now. Right in the next month or so. Consider yourself a soldier being thrown into the most important engagement the world has ever seen--combating the growth of the Soviets. We can't afford such luxuries as asking for volunteers. Now do you get it?"
Hank Kuran could feel impotent anger rising inside him. He was off balance. "I get it, but I don't like it."
"None of us do," Sheridan Hennessey said sourly. "Do you think any of us do?" He must have pressed a button.
From behind them the major's voice said briskly, "Will you come this way, Mr. Kuran?"
* * * * *
In the limousine, on the way out to the airport, the bright, impossibly cleanly shaven C.I.A. man said, "You've never been behind the Iron Curtain before, have you Kuran?"