“You said it would be a terrible war. Innocent people slaughtered. Remember?”
“It won’t be a war, Marge. They’ll just occupy the place. Peacefully. We can’t let all those valuable ores just rot away there, you know.”
She looked at him strangely. “Suppose they object to this occupation. What then?”
“Why—why, how can they? They’re just primitive alien beings. I don’t even think they have explosives, let alone atomics.”
“Not one of you has a conscience,” Marge said. “Except Dave Spalding. He’s the only one that seems to be upset by this. None of the rest of you are. You just see bonuses and status increments.” Her voice was wild and sharp now. “Alf Haugen’s probably planning to trade in his car for a custom model. That’s all he thinks of. And you, Ted—do you think at all?”
She rose from the table, broke away from him suddenly, and ran off into the darkened living room. He heard the cat squeal in surprise and come dashing out of the room, complaining vehemently. It was a very old cat, and disliked noise and motion.
Things were getting out of hand, Kennedy decided. He tiptoed into the living room. In the darkness he made out a dim form lying on the couch that converted each night into their bed. Marge was sobbing quietly.
Frowning, Kennedy sat down on the edge of the couch and let his hand lightly caress the firm muscles of her back.
“Marge,” he whispered. “Don’t carry on this way. It’s just a job. That’s all—just a job. I’m not going to be killing Ganymedeans. I won’t be carrying a gun. No matter what I say or think or do, it’s going to happen anyway. Why take it out on me? Why hurt us?”
The sobbing stopped. He knew she was staring sightlessly in the darkness, battling within herself. Finally she sat up. “All right, darling. I’m taking this whole thing much too seriously, I guess.” She tried to smile.
He leaned over and kissed her. But it was a tense, uncertain kiss. They had not seen the end of this quarrel so soon, he realized unhappily.
It was pretty much of a lame evening. They had tentative plans to visit neighbors down the road, but Marge was puffy-eyed from crying, and Kennedy had fallen into a brooding mood of introversion that made any socializing a dismal prospect for the evening. He phoned and begged off, claiming urgent work that simply had to be done this very evening.
There were some awkward moments while he helped her put away the dinner dishes; twice, his eyes met hers and he flinched. He felt very tired. The Ganymede contract was going to occupy his attentions for more than a year, and it wasn’t going to be healthy for their marriage if they spent the next thirteen months bickering over the moral issues involved in his acceptance of the assignment.
He had long been proud of the fact that his wife had a mind of her own. Her independent thinking was one of the things he loved her for. But, he saw now, it could also get somewhat burdensome. Perhaps if we’d had children, he speculated. Maybe she wouldn’t be so touchy about Causes and Movements. But they had never had children, and probably never would.
They listened to music awhile—Kennedy only half-listening to the Boccherini quintet Marge loved so, and the Schubert octet. She was terribly fond of chamber music. Ordinarily, Kennedy was, too—but tonight it all seemed frilly and foolish.
At five to eight he suggested, “Let’s watch video, eh, Marge? We haven’t done that in ages. Let’s watch some comic, the way we used to years ago.”
“Anything you like, dear,” she said mechanically.
He dimmed the lights and switched the set on. It was a new set, hardly a year old, a forty-eight-inch job Kennedy had had installed in the wall opposite the couch. Again, a social necessity. They hardly watched it, normally.
A vortex of colored light swirled dizzyingly for an instant, and then the screen cleared. They had tuned in at the tail end of some program, and a gay, sprightly commercial was on. Kennedy found the dancing stick-figures offensive. He drew Marge close against him on the couch, but she was stiff and unresponsive.
The program ended. The time-bleep bleeped and a deep voice said, “Eight P.M., Eastern Standard Time. From coast to coast, Levree Radionic Watches keep you on time, all the time. No gears, no springs.”
Again the screen showed the color vortex. Another voice said, “The program normally scheduled for this hour has been canceled to bring you a special Government information release program.”
“Let me change the station,” Kennedy said. “This’ll just be dull junk. We need something funny tonight.”
She grasped his arm tightly. “No. Let’s see what this is, first. It may be important.”
An announcer appeared, white-toothed, neatly tanned, his mustache stained red and meticulously clipped. “Good evening,” he said. “This is Don Howell from your network newsroom, bringing you a special program covering the big news story of the day, the year, and possibly the century—the discovery of living intelligent beings on another world of this solar system.”
Kennedy stiffened. Already? he asked himself. They’re releasing it so soon?
“We must have missed the news bulletins,” Marge said.
“. . . was revealed by the President at 4:45 this afternoon, at a special press conference. The news electrified a world long fascinated by the possible existence of life in outer space. Details of the expedition are still coming in. However, it’s our privilege to present the first public showing of a special film taken by members of the Ganymede expedition!”
The film was the same one Kennedy had seen in Dinoli’s office earlier in the day. This time, though, a slick professional commentary had been dubbed in. The news-break, Kennedy thought, was apparently the work of a Dinoli second-level man who’d been preparing it for some days. He thought he recognized Ernie Watsinski’s touch in the commentary.
When the film reached the point at which the Ganymedean natives appeared, he heard Marge utter a little gasp. “Why, they’re like children!” she said. “Defenseless naked creatures! And these are the beings we’re going to make war on?”
“We’re just going to occupy their territory,” Kennedy said stubbornly. “And probably administer it for them. In the long run they’ll be a lot better off for it.”
“Unless they don’t want to be better off,” she said. “Or administered.”
Kennedy shook his head. The public knew, now, come tomorrow, the behind-the-scenes campaign would begin in the offices of S and D. What shall it profit a man, he wondered bleakly, if he gets promoted to second-level, and loses his own wife in the process?
He pulled her tight against him, and after a few moments of hesitation she turned from the screen to him, with what he hoped was unfaked warmth.
4
The next day was the fourth of May, 2044, and the first day of intensive work on what was rapidly becoming known around S and D as the Ganymede Contract.
The dramatic newsbreak of the night before seemed to be the universal topic of discussion; every telefax sheet, every news commentator, every cab driver, had his own set of opinions on the revelation. Kennedy thought of this time as a kind of primordially formless era, before the shrewd minds of Steward and Dinoli went to work shaping a clear-cut and unified public opinion from the present chaos.
They met in the office of Ernie Watsinski, second-level public-relations man, and, incidentally, Dinoli’s son-in-law. Watsinski was a tall, stoop-shouldered man of thirty-eight, weak-eyed, with a dome-like skull sparsely covered with sandy hair. Physically he was easy to overlook. But he had a razor-keen mind and an astonishing capacity for quick decisions. He had made second-level at the age of thirty-one, marrying Dinoli’s daughter the following year.
He affected twentieth-century functional by way of office furniture, and as a result his private room looked severely ascetic. He perched on the arm of a lemon-colored desk chair and glanced around the room. All eight of the third-level men were present, and Dave Spalding.
“How many of you saw the big newsbreak last night?” he asked. His voice was th
in and high-pitched, but still somehow commanding. “All of you? Fine. That’s what we like to see here. I worked that program up myself, you know. With aid from Hubbel and Partridge.”
He slouched back in the chair, crossing his long spidery legs. “Your colleagues of the sixth- and seventh-level have been running gallups all morning. We’ve got some of the early results in. Seems almost everyone saw that spot last night, and the early gallups show tremendous interest focused on this Ganymede thing. Okay. The interest exists; it’s our job to channel it. That clear and pellucid?”
Without waiting for any response, he continued. “You’ve all been relieved of your present assignments. You’ll be working directly under me; the other three second-level men will be operating peripherally in the same general area, but the key work on this contract is going to come out of this office. I have this straight from Dinoli. Any questions? Good. Now, let’s toss this around for half an hour or so. First thing I want is a suggestion for a broad approach. Kennedy?”
Kennedy had been astonished by the sight of his own arm waving in the air. He recovered quickly and said, “I have an idea or two on our general slant, if that hasn’t already been determined.”
“It hasn’t. That’s what we’re here to do. Go on.”
“Well,” Kennedy said carefully, “My wife and I saw the program last night. Her reaction to the sight of the Ganymedeans was one of pity. They aroused her maternal protective instincts. I’d suggest we play to this, Ernie. The poor, childlike, innocent Ganymedeans who have to be taken over by our occupation forces for their own good.”
“Shrewd point, Kennedy. Let’s kick that around a little. Haugen?”
“I’m dead opposed,” Haugen said thickly. He twined his fleshy fingers together. “My wife reacted pretty much the same way Kennedy’s did. She even thought they were cute. The gallups will probably tell you that it was a universal reaction. Okay. We follow Kennedy’s plan and build the Ganymedeans up as babes in the woods. What happens if they decide to fight back? Suppose there’s a massacre bloodier than all get-out when we try to occupy Ganymede?”
“Amplify,” Watsinski said.
“What I’m getting at is this: it may be necessary to gun those creatures down by droves. We can’t hide that completely from the public, Ernie. And the outcry will be fantastic. We may even have a revolution on our hands. The government’s certainly going to be in trouble.”
Watsinski narrowed his eyes until they were mere slits, and stroked the side of his long, curved nose. At length he said, “Kennedy, you see the flaw in your proposition?”
Shamefaced, Kennedy nodded. Haugen had deflated his idea quickly and sensibly. They would have to prepare the public for the worst.
Watsinski glanced around the table. “Before we move on, is there anyone else who wants to argue for Kennedy’s point? I want to make sure.”
Slowly Dave Spalding raised his hand. “I do. I think it’s wrong to go into this expecting a bloody massacre. The occupation ought to be as peaceful as possible, and if we build up a publicity blanket of love for the Ganymedeans then it damn well better be peaceful.”
There was an instant of silence. Kennedy distinctly heard Watsinski’s sobbing intake of breath, as if he were being very patient. Watsinski said, “Spalding, you’re only a fourth-level man, and we can make allowances. But we try to shape public opinion here. We don’t try to shape the doings of the Corporation to fit the kind of atmosphere we’ve created. They happen to employ us. This kind of thing has hurt you before, Spalding, and it’s likely to hurt you again if you don’t get your thinking clarified.”
Kennedy glanced quickly down the table at Spalding, and glanced away. The young fourth-level man had gone very pale at the rebuke. His nostrils nickered in momentary anger; he said nothing.
Watsinski said, “Well. We can go ahead, then. Kick it around some more, fellows. I’m listening.”
Lloyd Presslie got the floor. “We could take the opposite track. Paint the Ganymedeans as monsters. Alien demons from an ice-bound planet. Wipe this damn mother-love out of the picture, just in case we have to come down on them hard.”
Watsinski was smiling, showing yellowish, uneven teeth. “I like,” he said gently. “I like. Let’s kick it around some more, shall we?”
But Kennedy knew that any further talk was going to be superfluous. Watsinski’s smile meant that the meeting had arrived at what was going to be the policy; that Presslie had accidentally hit on the plan which Dinoli and his top staff men had already formulated, and which Watsinski had been prepared to shove down the third-level men’s throats, if necessary.
Kennedy ate lunch that day, as he had every day of his eight-year employment at Steward and Dinoli, in the agency cafeteria on Floor Ten. He twitched his yellow status-card from the protective folder in his wallet, slapped it against the translucent plastic plate in the dispensary wall, and waited for it to be scanned.
A moment later the standard Thursday third-level lunch issued from a slot further down in the dispensary. Kennedy repocketed his meal-ticket and picked up his tray. Algae steak, synthetic vegemix, a cup of pale but undeniably real coffee. Dinoli had never been very liberal with his lunches. The second-level men ate in their private offices, so Kennedy had no idea of what they were served, but he was willing to wager the menu wasn’t one hundred percent natural foods.
Just as he started to head for the third-level table in the front of the cafeteria, someone nudged his elbow, nearly spilling his tray. He turned, annoyed.
Dave Spalding stood behind him, smiling apologetically.
“Sorry, Ted. I didn’t mean to knock your tray over. But I called you, and you didn’t answer.”
Kennedy glanced at the tray Spalding held. The fourth-level menu was something he had already thankfully forgotten, and he was not happy to see it again. Weak soup, chlorella patties, protein sauce. Synthetic caffeine drink. He looked away, embarrassed.
“What is it, Dave? You want to talk to me?”
Spalding nodded. “Unless you’ve already made plans for lunch. We can take one of the tables at the side.”
Shrugging, Kennedy agreed. Perhaps Spalding wanted to ask his advice. As a third-level man, it was his responsibility to help any lower-rated man who sought him out.
There were a few small tables arranged at the far side of the cafeteria for meetings such as this. Ordinarily, one ate with one’s own level, but tables were provided to care for inter-level lunches as well. It simply would not have done for Kennedy to have had to eat at the fourth-level table in order to speak with Spalding.
They sat down. Kennedy was happy the second-level men ate elsewhere; he did not want his name linked too tightly to Spalding’s in Watsinski’s mind.
“Can I speak to you with absolute honesty?” Spalding asked.
“Of course, Dave.” Kennedy felt ill at ease. Spalding, at twenty-eight, was Marge’s age—four years his junior. When Harris had left the Agency for independent press-agenting work a year ago, Spalding should have entered third-level. But instead, Lloyd Presslie had been jumped over him into third. “What’s on your mind?” Kennedy asked.
Spalding paused, a forkful of chlorella patty poised midway between plate and mouth. “The Ganymede contract. I want to know how you feel about it.”
“A job,” Kennedy said. “Possibly quite a challenging one.”
Spalding’s dark eyes seemed to bore into him. He was scowling. “Just a job? A challenge?”
“Should it be anything else?”
“It’s the biggest sell since the days of Judas, and you know it as—as pellucidly as I do,” Spalding said, bitterly mocking Ernie Watsinski’s favorite word. “The whole thing is simply a naked grab of strategic territory. And we’re supposed to peddle the idea to the public.”
“Does it matter,” Kennedy asked, “which particular commodity we’re selling? If you want to start drawing ethical boundaries, you’d have to ring the whole agency. I’ve had plenty of jobs just as—well, shady—as this
one. So have you. That Federated Bauxite thing I was on, just to take one example—”
“So you had to convince some people in Nebraska that they weren’t having their water supply polluted. I suppose that’s small enough so you can swallow it down. But Ganymede’s too big. We’re selling two worlds—ours and theirs. Ted, I want out.”
“Out of the contract?”
“Out of the agency,” Spalding said.
Kennedy chewed quietly for a moment. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked after a while.
“I have to tell someone, Ted. And I feel I can trust you. I think you’re basically on my side. I know Marge is. She can convince you.”
“Keep Marge out of this discussion,” Kennedy said, forcing back his anger. Spalding was only a wild-eyed kid, despite his twenty-eight years. Some of them never grew up, never learned that life was essentially a lot of compromises within compromises, and you had to do the best you could. “You’d really leave the agency over this contract?”
Spalding looked so pale as to seem ill. “I’ve been building up to it a long time. We’ve been handed one sell after another, but this one’s too big. It’s lousy, Ted. I tried to play along with all the others. But they had to go and yank me out of fourth-level to work on this one. Why?”
“Maybe they wanted to see how you’d react.”
“Well, they’re going to see,” Spalding snapped. “I tried to put in my pitch when we met with Watsinski this morning. It was your point I was defending, too, even if you gave up. But you saw how I got slapped down. Policy on this was set a long time ago, Ted.”
Kennedy felt inwardly calm. He mopped up his plate with exaggerated care, thinking that this was no problem of his, that he took a mere intellectual interest in Spalding’s qualms of conscience, with no emotional involvement. “You haven’t thought this through, Dave. Where would you go? You’re not a youngster any more. You’re twenty-eight, and still fourth-level. Dinoli’s sure to blacklist you. You couldn’t get a job anywhere in PR or advertising.”
Invaders From Earth Page 3