by Kris Neville
And fear.
When he shielded, she resumed the pressure.
AT noon he was back in Los Angeles. Perspiration was under his skin, waiting icily.
He went directly to the warehouse.
Hickle, in surprise, crossed the room to him. “Mister Parr!” he said.
The right corner of Parr’s mouth was twitching nervously. “Get a chair. Bring it to the desk.
When Hickle was seated before him, Parr said, “Okay. I’ve got some papers. I’m going to explain them to you.” He got them out. “They’re all alike in form. Here.” He took off the top sheet and Hickle stood up to see. “This number, here, is for the truck unit.” He circled it and scribbled the word “truck.”
“This number.” He circled it. “This number is the lot number. You see, truck number nine has lots seventeen, twenty-seven, fifty-three, thirty-one.”
“I get it,” Hickle said.
Parr’s body was trembling and he threw out a tentative wave of thought probing for the Oholo, afraid that she might come silently, knowing his approximate daytime location. He began to talk rapidly, explaining.
It was D-Day minus seven.
After fifteen minutes, he was satisfied that Hickle understood the instructions.
“There was a plain bundle this morning?”
“Yes, sir. I wondered about that.”
“Get it.”
Hickle got it.
Parr opened it. “Pay roll money, trucker money. Give the truckers their money when they give you their bills. I’m going to trust you, Hickle.”
Hickle gulped. “Yes, sir.”
Parr began to stuff money into his wallet.
She was in Los Angeles. He knew by the pressure on his mind.
“I’ve got to hurry. Listen. I want you to keep the workers here as long as necessary, hear? This schedule’s got to be kept. And you take a thousand dollars. And listen, Hickle. This is just chicken-feed, remember that, when you’re working for us.”
“Yes, sir!”
He had her located, keeping his mind open to try to center on her.
HE could center on her! She was only partially shielded, and she made no protest. She was not moving, and he could . . . except that there was something wrong with the pressure. He was overlooking something. But she was not moving. Not yet.
“I’ve got to talk fast. All these final deliveries. You’ll be busy. If you need help, hire it. And listen, I’ll be here from time to time if I can.”
“There’s something wrong, Mister Parr?”
Parr searched for an excuse. “It’s personal . . . my wife, yes, my wife, it’s . . .” He wondered why he had used that one. It had sprung automatically to his mind. “Never mind. I’ll phone in from around town. I’ll try to help you all I can by phone.”
She was not moving, but the pressure seemed different . . . alien!
He jerked out of his seat, kicking the chair over as he headed for the door.
A different Oholo!
There were two of them in Los Angeles!
He probed out.
Lauri was almost on top of him.
He skidded through the door, into the street, knocking a startled man out of his path.
He stared wildly in both directions. Several blocks away a cab was stalled with a red light.
And almost before him, a private car was headed uptown. With three huge leaps he was on the running board, yanking the door open.
He jerked himself in beside the frightened driver.
He twisted his head, shouting. “Emergency! Hospi . . .”
She had seen him trying to escape. She struck.
In the street, a flock of English sparrows suddenly faltered in flight, and one plunged blindly into the stone face of a building. The others circled hysterically, directionless, and two collided and spilled to the ground.
“Hurry, damn it!” Parr moaned at the driver. “Hurry!”
He slammed forward into the windshield, babbling.
The terrified driver stepped down on the accelerator. The car leaped forward.
Parr, fighting with all his strength, was twisted in agony, and blood trickled from his mouth.
He gasped at the driver: “Cab. Behind. Trying to kill me.”
The driver was white-faced and full of movie chases and gangster headlines of shotgun killings, typical of Southern California. He had a good car under him, and he spun the wheel to the right, cutting into an alley; to the left, onto an intersecting alley; to the right, into a crosstown street; then he raced to beat a light.
He lost the cab finally in a maze of heavy traffic at Spring.
Parr was nearly unconscious, and he struggled desperately for air.
Run, run, run, he thought despairingly, because two Oholos are ten times as deadly and efficient as one . . .
CHAPTER VIII
D-DAY minus four General mailing day.
Parr, his mind fatigued, his body tense, phoned the warehouse twice, and twice received enthusiastic reassurances behind which he could hear the hum and clatter of parcels being moved, trucks being loaded . . . cursing and laughing and subdued shouting.
‘How many hours row? His mind was clogged and stuffy and sluggish.
An hour’s sleep, ten minutes sleep—any time at all. If it could be spent in clear, cold, real sleep.
Eat, run. Always, now, he was running, afraid to stop longer than a few minutes. He needed time to think.
And the pressure was steady.
Get away. Leave Los Angeles!
“Parr, Parr. This is Parr,” he whispered hoarsely from the back seat of the moving cab into the comset.
The rhythm of the engine, the gentle sleepy swaying of the car and the monotony of the buildings lulled him. He caught himself, shook his head savagely.
Dimly he could understand the logic advising him to remain in the city. But it was not an emotional understanding and it lacked the sharpness of reality. For now the two Oholos could follow him easily, determining his distance and direction. If he left Los Angeles, the focus of the invasion, it would be difficult to return after postal delivery. After the invasion it would be nearly impossible. It would give the Oholos added time to run him down. But to remain . . . His body could not stand the physical strain of four more days of continual flight, around, around, up Main—to the suburbs—to the ocean—back to Main again—down the speedway to Pasadena and through Glendale to Main. Change cabs and do it all over again.
“Yes?” the Advanceship said.
“I’m . . . leaving. I’ve got to leave. I’ve got to.” And suddenly, in addition to the other consideration, he was afraid to be there when the invasion hit. Was it because he was afraid they knew of his treason? Or . . . was it because . . . he liked the buildings? Strangely, he did not want to see the buildings made rubble . . .
The answer: “You have a job to do.”
“It’s done!” he cried in anguish. “Everything’s scheduling. In a few hours now it’ll be all over. I can’t do anymore here.”
A pause.
“You better stay. You’ll be safer there.”
“I can’t!” Parr sobbed. “They’ll catch me!”
“Wait.”
A honk. The purr of the engine. Clang. Bounce. Red and green lights.
“. . . If the mailings are secure, you have the Ship’s permission. Do whatever you like.”
Expendable.
Parr put the comset in his coat pocket and cowered into the seat.
“Turn right!” he said suddenly to the driver. “Now . . . now . . . Right again!”
He bounced.
He closed his eyes, resting them. “Out Hill,” he said wearily without opening his eyes.
He withstood an irritated mental assault. They were tiring. But not as fast as he was.
THE silent pursuit: three cars out of the multitudes, doggedly twisting and turning through the Los Angeles streets—separated by blocks, even by miles, but bound by an unseen thread that was unbreakable.
Parr drew himself erect. “A phone I Take me to a phone!”
The taxi ground to a stop in a service station.
Nervously, Parr began to phone airports. Three quarters of his mind was on his pursuers.
On the third try he got promise of an immediate private plane.
“Have it ready!” he ordered. Then, dropping the receiver he ran from the station to the cab.
He jockeyed for nearly thirty minutes for position.
Then he commanded the driver to abandon the intricate inter-weaving and head directly for the airport in Santa Monica.
Shortly, the two other cars swung in line, down Wilshire.
THE job of softening up Earth for the invasion began to pass entirely from the hands of the advancemen. From a ticklish, dangerous proposition at first to a virtual certain mailing day. The world wide mechanism of delivery swung into operation from time zone to time zone, and, in the scheme of conquest the advancemen passed from integral factors to inconsequential objects.
All over America, from East to West, within the space of a single day the post office became aware of the increased, the tremendously increased volume. Previously in certain sections there had been signals in the form of out-bound dribbles. Now there were in-bound floods rising suddenly to the peak intensity of overtime innundations. A million packages, some large, some small, some brown wrapped, white wrapped, light, heavy—no two alike, no way to tell the new influx from the normal handling.
At the very first each office saw the rush as a unique phenomenon—for there was no reason to report it to a higher echelon which night have instituted an investigation Merely to take care of the rush, that was all. To process the all-at-once congestion of parcels to be door to door delivered. Later to be marveled at.
Lines formed at parcel windows; trucks spewed out their cargos. Lights burned late; clerks cursed and sweated; parcels mounted higher and higher.
Nor did it break all at once in the press. The afternoon editions carried a couple of fillers about how Christmas seemed to be coming early for the citizens of Saco, Maine, and how a tiny Nevada town whose post office was cob-webby from lack of use suddenly found itself doing a land office business.
Most of the morning editions carried a whimsical AP artic le that the late radio newscasters picked up and rebroadcast. Then after most West Coast stations were off the air for the night events began to snowball in the East.
The breakfast newscasts carried the first stories. The morning gapers began to tie in the various incidents and reach astonishing conclusions . . .
THE propeller was not even turning over. The plane, wheeled out of the hanger, was waiting, cold, and the pilot lounged by the office, smoking a cigarette.
The sky was black, and here and there before the blatant searchlights sprouting from dance halls and super markets, clumps of lacy California clouds fluttered like dingy sheepwool in a half-speed Mix-Master.
Parr, tossing a handful of bills at the driver, leaped from the cab and ran frantically toward the office.
The wait was terrible. Should the Oholos arrive, he was boxed in spaciously, with no escape. In gnawing at the inner side of his lower lip, he bit through his disguise into real flesh and real blood.
There were forms to sign, responsibility to be waived.
And with every minute, they drew nearer.
Finally the airplane motor coughed into reluctant life, and Parr could feel the coldness of artificial leather against his back.
The ship shuddered, moved heavily, shifted toward the wind onto the lighted runway. The motor roared louder and louder and the ship trembled. Slowly it began to pick up speed, the wings fighting for lift.
A searchlight from the pier made a slow ring of light toward the invisible stars.
The ground fell away and Parr was on his way to Denver.
Almost immediately, with the pressure still on his mind but fading swiftly, he fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of treason, while, in the background ominous clouds shifted and gathered to darken the sun of his native planet. Finally, all was a starless black except for half-forgotten faces which paraded before him, telling his treason with hissing tongues in words he could not quite grasp the meaning of.
THE air of Denver was clear and bright—crystal clear, drawing in the mountains, opening up the sky like a bent back box top. The new sun seemed small.
Parr stood on a street corner acutely aware of the thin air and the bright clean sky. An open sky that seemed to be trying to talk to him. He snorted at the absurdity of the thought but he strained half consciously to listen.
He walked on, his feet tapping sharply on the concrete, his mind foggy from the uncomfortable sleep.
A building to the left momentarily reminded him of a slide shown long ago in a classroom on a distant planet, and he wondered if the picture had been taken in this city (knowing, deeply, that it could not have been).
Parr took a newspaper from a stand. Tucking it under his arm he continued to walk until he found a hotel.
He ate breakfast hurriedly in the annex and then rented a room with a radio. He went to it, lay relaxing on the bed, his mind open and free but uneasy again as he thought of treason.
“Parr,” he said into the comset. “I’m in Denver.”
“Have you escaped?”
“They will follow me,” Parr said wearily, “But for the moment, I’m free.”
“We’ll send our Denver advanceman to you,” the Ship said. “The two of you should be able to handle the Oholos.”
Parr’s mouth was dry. He named the hotel.
“Wait, then.”
He lay back but felt no exultation. He tried to force it, but there was nothing.
And then, staring at the headlines, knowledge of success broke all around him and he was trembling and jubilant. He sprang up, paced the room, moving his hands restlessly.
He rushed to the window, looked out into the street. The people below passed in a thin nervous stream. Unusually few; many more were glued at home, waiting for the mail.
A postal delivery truck turned the corner, rolled down the street before the hotel. All action ceased; all eyes turned to watch its path.
Parr wanted to hammer the wall and cry, “Stop! Stop! I’ve got to ask some questions first! Stop! There’s something wrong!”
PARR was shaking. He sat on the bed and began to laugh. But his laughter was hollow.
His victory—a Knoug victory . . . He frowned. Why had he automatically made a differentiation where there should be none? He realized that the mailing success had released him from nervous preoccupation in Knoug work; for the first time he was free of responsibility, and he could think . . . clearly . . . about . . . He wanted to hammer the terrifying new doubts out of his mind. But they gathered like rain clouds. He went to the mirror and fingered his face. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Knoug victory had a bitter taste.
He suddenly pictured the civilization around him as a vast web held in tension by a vulnerable thread of co-operation, now slowly disintegrating as the thread crumbled. And he took no joy in the thought.
He began to let images float in his mind. Imagined scenes, taking place beyond the walls.
A man went in to pay off a loan, his pockets stuffed with money. “I’m not taking it.”
“Whatsa matter? It’s legal tender. You gotta take it.”
Bills on the counter.
“You didn’t mean that!”
“It don’t matter.”
“It isn’t any good. Everybody’s got it.”
“That don’t matter.”
“It’s worthless!”
“Yeah? Listen: ‘For all debts, public and private . . .’ ”
Parr’s mind reached out to grasp the unsettling immensity of it. He flipped on the radio, half heard an excited announcer.
Parr thought: All over the world, each to his own: coins, bills, dollars, rupees, pesos, pounds—how many million parcels were there? Eac
h stuffed with enough to make its owner a man of wealth, as wealth was once measured.
Parr thought it was terrifying, somehow.
And the headline of the paper admitted: “No Test To Reveal Good Money From Bad.”
(There was a mob. They were storming a liquor store, while the owner cowered inside. He was waiting for the police. But the police were too busy elsewhere, so finally, to salvage what he could before the mob took his stock for nothing he opened the door, crying, “Form a line! Form a line!”)
Parr thought of the confusion that would grow.
Prices spiraling.
(In the United States Senate, a member took the floor to filibuster until California had its mail delivery and its fair share of the free money.)
This was the day work stoppages would begin.
FAMINE PREDICTED . . .
PRESIDENT IN APPEAL TO . . . GUARD MOBILIZED . . .
Riots. Celebrations. (A church burned the mortgage gratefully.) Clean shelves. Looming scarcity.
By the time the sun dipped into the Pacific, the whole economic structure of the world would be in shambles.
Governments doubtless would blame each other (half-heartedly), propose new currency, taxes, and the gold standard again.
Industrial gears would come unmeshed as workers took vacations. Electric power, in consequence would begin to fail.
(Looting already occupied the attention of the better part of the underworld, and not a few respectable citizens decided to get it now and store it for use when it would be unavailable because others had done likewise.)
Stagnation tomorrow. But as yet, the fear and hysteria had not really begun. Parr shuddered, sickened. “What have I done?”
It would take months to unmuddle the chaos.
Earth was ripe for invasion . . .
PARR aroused from a heavy stupor. The pressure was back. He moaned, and the knock on the door jolted him into startled animal movement.
The knob turned. Parr tensed, although he could tell that the Oholo team was still distant. “Who is it?”
The door opened and a disguised Knoug slipped through. Immediately behind him a simian-like Earthman towered. “Come in,” the Knoug said. When they were inside, he shut the door.