Kennedy had hardly finished speaking when half a dozen hands were in the air. For an instant he thought they were going to laugh him down, but then he saw the way they all looked, and realized his suggestion had inspired them to new heights.
Presslie got the floor and said, “It’s a natural! Why, then we can follow through by having the Ganymedeans wipe out this colony. It’s a sure bet for engaging sympathy in any sort of necessary police action! Innocent women and children perishing, flames, blood—why, this is the handle we need! Of course I can suggest some modifications, but those can come later.”
Watsinski nodded. “Kennedy seems to have hit on a sharp idea. I’m going to suggest it to Dinoli as our basic line of approach, and build all the other plans around it. Good work, Kennedy. Lund, let’s hear from you, now, I want to kick this all the way round the table.”
6
Later that day, two hours after the meeting had broken up, Kennedy was working at his desk when the phone chimed. He snatched it up and heard Watsinski’s dry voice say, “Kennedy? Ernie here. Can you come over to my place for a few minutes?”
“Be right there, Ernie.”
Watsinski was waiting for him when he came in. The second-level man wore a severely funereal business-suit and a glistening red wig. He smiled perfunctorily and beckoned Kennedy to a seat.
“I took up your suggestion with Dinoli,” he said immediately, without preface. “The old man loved it. He thinks it’s great. So did Kauderer, McDermott, and Poggioli. We had a quick vote on it just before lunch.”
Stiffly Kennedy said, “I’m glad to hear it went over, Ernie.”
Watsinski nodded. “It went over. Dinoli spent half of lunch talking to Bullard—he’s Mr. Big over at the Corporation, you know. They were mapping out the strategy. Dinoli is using your plan as the core of the whole thing.”
Kennedy felt a self-satisfied glow. Dammit, it was good to know your voice counted for something around this place. It was always so easy to think you were just a puppet being pushed around by the top-level men with the same ease that you pushed the vast inchoate public mind around.
“I hit a good one, huh, Ernie?”
“You did.” Watsinski leaned back and permitted some warmth to enter his face. “I’ve always liked you, Ted. I think you’ve got the stuff for second-level. You know what it takes—dogged persistence plus off-beat ingenuity. That isn’t an everyday combination of traits. We’ve got guys who come up with off-beat ideas—Lund, for instance, or Whitman, or sometimes that kid Spalding. But they don’t have the push to implement their notions. And then we get the kind like Haugen, the solid pluggers who never make mistakes but who never come up with anything new or fresh either. Well, we need both types down on third-level. But second-level takes something else. I’ve got it. So do Poggioli and McDermott and Kauderer. I think you have it too, Ted.”
“It’s good to hear you say that, Ernie. I know you don’t go soaping people up.”
Watsinski inclined his red wig forward. “This is strictly, off the record, Ted. But Frank Poggioli is talking about pulling out of S and D and taking a big network job in video. I know he and Dinoli hashed it out, and Dinoli’s willing to let him go.”
“The Chief always likes to have his graduates high up in the networks,” Kennedy said.
“Sure. Well, in case Poggioli goes, someone’ll have to be kicked up to second-level to fill the vacancy. Dinoli also took that up with me this morning. It’s between Haugen and Presslie and you. But Presslie’s fresh out of fourth-level and I know McDermott’s afraid to move anybody up too fast; and they think Haugen’s too stodgy. I’m putting my support back of you. That business this morning helped me make up my mind.”
“Thanks, Ernie. Thanks.” Kennedy wondered why Watsinski was bothering to tell him all this.
Watsinski let his eyes droop quietly closed, and when he opened them again they seemed to be veiled. “Okay. Enough if-talk, Ted. I just wanted you to know where you stand in the agency. I hate to see a man feel insecure when he’s in a good position.” Watsinski frowned. “You know, there are guys in this agency who don’t have the right spirit, and I wish we could root them the hell out of here. Guys who aren’t loyal. Guys who don’t have the right ideas. Guys whose minds are full of cockeyed garbage served up by antisocial creeps. You know these guys better than I do; you see them through clearer focus. As a prospective second-level man you ought to start thinking about these guys and how we can weed them out. You ought to let me know if you spot any thinking of a negative type. Okay, Ted?”
Kennedy felt a sudden chill. So that’s what he wants, he thought. He wants me to spy for him and finger the Spaldings who have qualms about the contract.
“I guess I see what you mean, Ernie. Well, I’ll think about it.”
“Sure. Don’t rush it or you’ll crush it. But I know definitely there are some antisocial elements on our team, and I want to clean them out. So does Dinoli.”
The office phone chimed. Watsinski picked it up, listened for a long moment, finally said, “He’s here right now, Lou. I’m filling him in. Okay, Chief.”
He hung up.
“That was Dinoli. Well, let me get to the main pitch, Ted: we’re using the plan you threw out this morning. We’re going to invent a colony on Ganymede and in October we’re going to have the Ganymedeans launch a savage attack on that colony, and then the Corporation will ask the U.N. to step in and save it. Dinoli wants you to be in charge of developing material on this colony. You’ll have sole charge. In essence you’ll be doing second-level work. You can name your own staff; pick out anybody you like from third- or fourth-level as your assistant.”
“Right now?”
“It would help,” Watsinki said.
Kennedy was silent a moment. He pulled a cigarette from an ignitopak, waited for it to glow into life, and with calm deliberation sucked smoke into his lungs. He thought about Watsinski’s proposition.
They were setting him up in a big way. On the surface, it was a heartwarming vote of confidence in his abilities— but Kennedy knew enough about the workings of Steward and Dinoli to realize that the upper levels never operated merely on the surface alone. They always played a deep game.
They were putting him into a big post in exchange for something—information, no doubt. They knew the Ganymede contract was a hot item, and they wanted to avoid any leaks by weeding out possible defectors like Spalding. Possibly they had their eye on Spalding already and were simply waiting for Kennedy to confirm their suspicions.
Well, Kennedy thought, I won’t play their game.
He thought about possible assistants for a moment more. Haugen, Lund, Whitman—
No. There was one man qualified uniquely for the job. One man who would much rather be writing books than handling the Ganymede contract.
Kennedy stared bluntly at Watsinski’s thin, shrewd face. “Okay. I’ve picked my man.”
“Who?”
“Dave Spalding,” Kennedy said.
For just a fraction of a second Watsinski looked as if Kennedy had kicked him in the teeth. Then control reasserted itself and Watsinski said, in a mellow, even tone, “Okay, Ted, I’ll see what I can do to expedite your request. That’ll be all for now. Keep up the good work.”
That night when Marge asked bim how things had gone during the day, he said shortly, “Pretty fair. Watsinski called me in and said I have a good shot at second-level. They gave me some special work to do.”
She was wearing a translucent skylon dress with peekaboo front. As she poured him his drink she said, “I guess you don’t want to talk about what you’ll be doing.”
“I’d rather not, Marge.”
“I won’t push, dear.” She dropped a pale white onion into the cocktail, kissed him, and handed him the drink.
He took it and said, “Dave Spalding’s going to be working directly with me. And we’re actually going to be handling the core of the whole project.”
It seemed for a moment that Marge looke
d surprised. Then she said, “I hope you and Dave will get along better now. It would be too bad if you couldn’t cooperate on your work.”
Kennedy smiled. “I think we will. I picked him as my assistant myself.” He took a deep sip of the drink and got it out of the way just in time as the cat bounded into his lap and curled himself up.
He felt relaxed and happy. This was the way life ought to be: a good job, a good drink, good music playing, your good wife fixing a good supper inside. And after supper some good company, an evening of relaxation, and then a good night in bed. He closed his eyes, listening to the jubilant trumpets of the Purcell Ode on the sound system, and stroked the cat gently with his free hand.
Spalding had taken the news pretty well, he thought. Kennedy had met with him at 2:00 o’clock, shortly after confirmation of the new arrangement had come through from Watsinski, and Spalding had seemed interested and almost enthusiastic about the fictional Ganymedean colony they were about to create. There had been no coldness between them, no raising of knotty moral issues, for which Kennedy was thankful in the extreme.
Instead, Spalding had immediately begun producing a wealth of ideas, characters, incidents, jumping at the work with boyish vigor. Kennedy realized that the four years was a considerable gap; Spalding was still just a kid. He hadn’t had time to learn the poised manners of a mature individual. But it would be good for both of them to work together on this project.
Kennedy himself felt a sudden welling of enthusiastic interest. He knew what Watsinski bad been talking about when he referred to the esthetic nature of public relations work. It could be a work of art. He and Spalding would give life to a colony of people, endow them with talents and hopes and strivings, interest the people of the world in their hardships and privations and courage.
The music swelled to a climax. Kennedy thought of old Purcell, back there in seventeenth-century England, hearing this glorious music inside his head and painstakingly jotting it onto a sheet of grimy paper—and then of the artists who performed it, the engineers who recorded it, the whole host of participants in the esthetic act. There it was, he thought: an artistic creation. Something that hadn’t existed the morning before Purcell inked in his first clef, and something that now belonged to the world.
It was almost the same way with this Ganymede colony he and Spalding would design. Men and women would be able to enter into the life of that colony just as he entered into the life of the musical composition being played. It was almost in a mood of exaltation that Kennedy walked into the dining room at Marge’s call.
She smiled at him. “I must have made that cocktail too strong,” she said.
“Three-and-a-half to one, or I’m no judge of proportions. Wasn’t it?”
“I thought so—but you look so different! Warm and relaxed, Ted.”
“And therefore I must be drunk. Because I couldn’t possibly be happy and relaxed when I’m sober. Well, I hate to disappoint you, Marge, but I am sober. And happy.”
“Of course you are, darling. I—”
“And the reason I’m happy,” Kennedy continued inexorably, “is only partly because Watsinski said I stood a good chance of making second-level when Poggioli pulls out. That’s a minor thing. I’m happy because I have a chance to participate in something real and vital and exciting, and Dave along with me. You know what I’ll be doing?”
She smiled. “I didn’t want to ask. You’re usually so touchy about your work when I ask things.”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” The glow he felt was even stronger.
“Dave and I are going to invent a colony on Ganymede, with people and everything.”
He went on to explain in detail what the colony would be like, how he had come to think of the idea, how Watsinski and the others had reacted when he put it forth. He concluded by letting her in on what was really classified material: he told her of Presslie’s concluding suggestion, that the colony would be “destroyed” to serve as provocation for the intended United Nations occupation.
“There,” he finished. “Isn’t that neat? Complete, well rounded, carefully built up. It—”
He stopped. The glow of happiness winked out in an instant. Marge was staring at him with an expression that he could only interpret as one of horror.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course I am. What’s wrong?”
“This whole terrible charade—this fake slush— being used to grab the sympathies of the world. What a gigantic, grisly hoax! And you’re proud of it!”
“Marge, I—”
“You what?” she asked quietly. “You were sitting there radiating content and happiness. How could you?”
“Just take it on its own terms,” he said tightly. “As a creative effort. Don’t drag moral confusions into it. You always have to cobweb things up by dragging in morality and preachery.”
“You can’t take anything on its own terms, Ted. That’s your mistake. You have to look at it in context, and in context I can only say that this thing stinks from top to bottom inside and out.”
He slammed his fork to the table. “Marge!”
She stared steadily at him. “I guess I spoke out of line, Ted. I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to preach.” The muscles of her jaws were tightening in convulsive little clumps, and Kennedy saw she was fighting hard to keep back another big emotional outburst. He reached out and gripped her hand.
“Don’t get worked up over this thing,” he told her. “From now on let me leave my job at 2:30 and forget it until the next morning. Otherwise we’ll be at each other’s throats all the time.”
“You’re right, dear. We’d better do that.”
He turned his attention back to his meal. But the food seemed dead and tasteless now, and he was totally unable to recapture the euphoric mood of just a few moments before.
A vast gulf was opening between himself and his wife, and it was getting wider day by day. He thought back over that glow of contentment and wondered how he could ever have attained it. What he and Spalding would be doing was a pretty soulless enterprise, he admitted to himself. There was nothing nice about it. And yet he had worked himself up into a fine esthetic frenzy over it, until Marge’s few harsh words had opened his eyes.
And I was proud of it, he thought. My God, don’t I ever think at all?
7
June 31, 2044—Leap Year World Holiday, by the Permanent Calendar. The extra day, intercalated in the otherwise changeless calendar every four years to take up the slack of the six hours and some minutes the Permanent Calendar was forced to ignore.
A day of revelry, Kennedy thought. A day between the days, a day that was neither Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday nor Thursday, nor Friday, Saturday or even Sunday. A timeless day on which no one worked except for holiday double-pay, on which even the rules of civilization went into the discard heap for twenty-four hours. It fell between Saturday, June thirtieth and Sunday, July first and since this was a leap year there would be two nameless days instead of the usual one at the end of the year.
The Kennedys chose to spend their day at Joyland Amusement Park on the Floating Island in Long Island Sound. Privately, Kennedy detested the hustle and bustle of the World Holidays; but they were family customs, deeply embedded in his way of life, and he never dared to speak out against them.
The road was crowded. Bumper to bumper, deflector plate to deflector plate, the little enameled beetles clung together on the Thruway. Kennedy sweated behind the wheel. The air-conditioners labored mightily. At his side Marge looked fresh and gay in her light summer clothes, red halter and light blue briefs. Her legs glistened; she wore the newest aluminum sprayons.
“The Egyptians had a better slant on this leap year business,” he said. “Every year they saved up the fragment of a day that was left over, and let them pile up in the back room of the temple. Then every one thousand four hundred and sixty years all those quarter-days amounted to one full year, and there they were with a whole year
that they didn’t figure into the calendars. The Sothic year. Of course, the seasons got pretty loused up while waiting for the Sothic year to come around, but that was okay. They held big festivals all that year. An eagle with painted wings was burned alive in a nest of palm branches to celebrate the event. And then the seasons came right again. Origin of the Phoenix legend.”
Marge giggled. Up ahead a car stalled in the furious heat and the radar eye of Kennedy’s automatic brake picked up the impulse and throttled the turbos; he and Marge rocked slightly forward as the car slowed to thirty.
“It was a fine system,” he went on. “And Egypt lasted long enough to celebrate two or three Sothic years. Emperor Augustus killed the Phoenix in 30 B.C. when he stabilized the Egyptian calendar. No more years of festival. We’re lucky to get a day once every four years.”
The car’s air-conditioners, whined sourly as the vehicle came to a complete halt. Marge said, “One thousand four hundred and sixty years ago America belonged to the Indians. Our ancestors were painting themselves blue and worshipping Druids in wicker baskets. And in the same amount of years hence we’ll all be forgotten. Sothic years won’t work nowadays; by the time the next one comes around nobody’ll remember to insert it in the calendar.”
“Sure they will. Otherwise you’ll have winter coming in May and summer in November and—” The congestion cleared ahead and he whisked the car on. The inside-out-side thermometer read sixty-nine inside the car, ninety-seven outside. The compass told him they were heading westward along the Thruway toward the Sound. Not a bad car at all, he thought, my battered old ’42 Frontenac. Hardly in the class with Haugen’s new Chevy-Caddy, of course, but ample for my purposes.
They reached another snag in the traffic pattern. Kennedy let go of the wheel and let his hand rest lightly on his wife’s cool knee.
“Ted?”
“Eh?”
“Let’s try to have a good time together today. Relaxed, Calm. Just having fun.”
Invaders From Earth Page 5