by J F Bone
It was pure corn, Matson reflected cynically, but the world lapped it up and howled for more. After decades of cold war, lukewarm war, and sporadic outbreaks of violence, that were inevitably building to atomic destruction, men were willing to try anything that would ease the continual burden of strain and worry. To Mankind, the Aztlans’ words were as refreshing as a cool breeze of hope in a desert of despair.
And the world got what it wanted.
Quite suddenly the aliens left the Northwest, and accompanied by protective squads of FBI and Secret Service began to cross the nation. Taking widely separated paths they visited cities, towns, and farms, exhibiting the greatest curiosity about the workings of human civilization. And, in turn, they were examined by hordes of hopeful humans. Everywhere they went, they spread their message of good will and hope backed by the incredibly convincing power of their telepathic minds. Behind them, they left peace and hopeful calm; before them, anticipation mounted. It rose to a crescendo in New York where the paths of the star men met.
The Aztlans invaded the United Nations. They spoke to the General Assembly and the Security Council, were interviewed by the secretariat and reporters from a hundred foreign lands. They told their story with such conviction that even the Communist bloc failed to raise an objection, which was as amazing to the majority of the delegates as the fact of the star men themselves. Altruism, it seemed, had no conflict with dialectic materialism. The aliens offered a watered-down variety of their technology to the peoples of Earth with no strings attached, and the governments of Earth accepted with open hands, much as a small boy accepts a cookie from his mother. It was impossible for men to resist the lure of something for nothing, particularly when it was offered by such people as the Aztlans. After all, Matson reflected bitterly, nobody shoots Santa Claus!
From every nation in the world came invitations to the aliens to visit their lands. The star men cheerfully accepted. They moved across Europe, Asia, and Africa—visited South America, Central America, the Middle East and Oceania. No country escaped them. They absorbed languages, learned customs, and spread good will. Everywhere they went relaxation followed in their footsteps, and throughout the world arose a realization of the essential brotherhood of man.
It took nearly three years of continual travelling before the aliens again assembled at UN headquarters to begin the second part of their promised plan—to give their science to Earth. And men waited with calm expectation for the dawn of Golden Age.
Matson’s lips twisted. Fools! Blind, stupid fools! Selling their birthright for a mess of pottage! He shifted the rifle across his knees and began filling the magazine with cartridges. He felt an empty loneliness as he closed the action over the filled magazine and turned the safety to “on”. There was no comforting knowledge of support and sympathy to sustain him in what he was about to do. There was no real hope that there ever would be. His was a voice crying in the wilderness, a voice that was ignored—as it had been when he visited the President of the United States . . .
MATSON entered the White House, presented his appointment card, and was ushered past ice-eyed Secret Service men into the presidential office. It was as close as he had ever been to the Chief Executive, and he stared with polite curiosity across the width of desk which separated them.
“I wanted to see you about the Aztlan business,” the President began without preamble. “You were there when their ship landed, and you are also one of the few men in the country who has seen them alone. In addition, your office will probably be handling the bulk of our requests in regard to the offer they made yesterday in the UN. You’re in a favorable spot.” The President smiled and shrugged. “I wanted to talk with you sooner, but business and routine play the devil with one’s desires in this office.
“Now tell me,” he continued, “your impression of these people.”
“They’re an enigma,” Matson said flatly. “To tell the truth, I can’t figure them out.” He ran his fingers through his hair with a worried gesture. “I’m supposed to be a pretty fair physicist, and I’ve had quite a bit of training in the social sciences, but both the mechanisms and the psychology of these Aztlans are beyond my comprehension. All I can say for sure is that they’re as far beyond us as we are beyond the cavemen. In fact, we have so little in common that I can’t think of a single reason why they would want to stay here, and the fact that they do only adds to my confusion.”
“But you must have learned something,” the President said.
“Oh we’ve managed to collect data,” Matson replied. “But there’s a lot of difference between data and knowledge.”
“I can appreciate that, but I’d still like to know what you think. Your opinion could have some weight.”
Matson doubted it. His opinions were contrary to those of the majority. Still, the Chief asked for it—and he might possibly have an open mind. It was a chance worth taking.
“Well, Sir, I suppose you’ve heard of the so-called “wild talents” some of our own people occasionally possess?”
The President nodded.
“It is my belief,” Matson continued, “that the Aztlans possess these to a far greater degree than we do, and that their science is based upon them. They have something which they call psychomathematics, which by definition is the mathematics of the mind, and this seems to be the basis of their physical science. I saw their machines, and I must confess that their purpose baffled me until I realized that they must be mechanisms for amplifying their own natural equipment. We know little or nothing about psi phenomena, so it is no wonder I couldn’t figure them out. As a matter of fact we’ve always treated psi as something that shouldn’t be mentioned in polite scientific conversation.”
The President grinned. “I always thought you boys had your blind spots.”
“We do—but when we’re confronted with a fact, we try to find out something about it—that is if the fact hits us hard enough, often enough.”
“Well, you’ve been hit hard and often,” the President chuckled, “What did you find out?”
“Facts,” Matson said grimly, “just facts. Things that could be determined by observation and measurement. We know that the aliens are telepathic. We also know that they have a form of ESP—or perhaps a recognition of danger would be a better term—and we know its range is somewhat over a third of a mile. We know that they’re telekinetic. The lack of visible controls in their ship would tell us that, even if we hadn’t seen them move small objects at a distance. We know that they have eidetic memories, and that they can reason on an extremely high level. Other than that we know nothing. We don’t even know their physical structure. We’ve tried X-ray but they’re radio-opaque. We’ve tried using some human sensitives from the Rhine Institute, but they’re unable to get anywhere. They just turn empathic in the aliens’ presence, and when we get them back, they do nothing but babble about the beauty of the Aztlan soul.”
“Considering the difficulties, you haven’t done too badly,” the President said. “I take it then, that you’re convinced that they are an advanced life form. But do you think they’re sincere in their attitude toward us?”
“Oh, they’re sincere enough,” Matson said. “The only trouble is that we don’t know just what they’re sincere about. You see, sir, we are in the position of a savage to whom a trader brings the luxuries of civilization. To the savage, the trader may represent purest altruism, giving away such valuable things as glass beads and machine made cloth for useless pieces of yellow rock and the skins of some native pest. The savage hasn’t the slightest inkling that he’s being exploited. By the time he realizes he’s been had, and the yellow rock is gold and the skins are mink, he has become so dependent upon the goods for which the trader has whetted his appetite that he inevitably becomes an economic slave.
“Of course you can argue that the cloth and beads are far more valuable to the savage than the gold or mink. But in the last analysis, value is determined by the higher culture, and by that standard, the savage gets
taken. And ultimately civilization moves in and the superior culture of the trader’s race determines how the savage will act.
“Still, the savage has a basis for his acts. He is giving something for something—making a trade. But we’re not even in that position. The aliens apparently want nothing from us. They have asked for nothing except our good will, and that isn’t a tradable item.”
“But they’re altruists!” the President protested.
“Sir, do you think that they’re insane?” Matson asked curiously. “Do they appear like fanatics to you?”
“But we can’t apply our standards to them. You yourself have said that their civilization is more advanced than ours.”
“Whose standards can we apply?” Matson asked. “If not ours, then whose? The only standards that we can possibly apply are our own, and in the entire history of human experience there has never been a single culture that has had a basis of pure altruism. Such a culture could not possibly exist. It would be overrun and gobbled up by its practical neighbors before it drew its first breath.
“We must assume that the culture from which these aliens come has had a practical basis in its evolutionary history. It could not have risen full blown and altruistic like Minerva from the brain of Jove. And if the culture had a practical basis in the past, it logically follows that it has a practical basis in the present. Such a survival trait as practicality would probably never be lost no matter how far the Aztlan race has evolved. Therefore, we must concede that they are practical people—people who do not give away something for nothing. But the question still remains—what do they want?
“Whatever it is, I don’t think it is anything from which we will profit. No matter how good it looks, I am convinced that cooperation with these aliens will not ultimately be to our advantage. Despite the reports of every investigative agency in this government, I cannot believe that any such thing as pure altrusim exists in a sane mind. And whatever I may believe about the Aztlans, I do not think they’re insane.”
The President sighed. “You are a suspicious man, Matson, and perhaps you are right; but it doesn’t matter what you believe—or what I believe for that matter. This government has decided to accept the help the Aztlans are so graciously offering. And until the reverse is proven, we must accept the fact that the star men are altruists, and work with them on that basis. You will organize your office along those lines, and extract every gram of information that you can. Even you must admit that they have knowledge that will improve our American way of life.”
Matson shook his head doggedly. “I’m afraid, Sir, if you expect Aztlan science to improve the American way of life, you are going to be disappointed. It might promote an Aztlan way of life, but the reverse is hardly possible.”
“It’s not my decision,” the President said. “My hands are tied. Congress voted for the deal by acclamation early this morning. I couldn’t veto it even if I wanted to.”
“I cannot cooperate in what I believe is our destruction.” Matson said in a flat voice.
“Then you have only one course,” the President said. “I will be forced to accept your resignation.” He sighed wearily.
“Personally, I think you’re making a mistake. Think it over before you decide. You’re a good man, and Lord knows the government can use good men. There are far too many fools in politics.” He shrugged and stood up. The interview was over.
Matson returned to his offices, filled with cold frustration. Even the President believed he could do nothing, and these shortsighted politicians who could see nothing more than the immediate gains—there was a special hell reserved for them. There were too many fools in politics. However, he would do what he could. His sense of duty was stronger than his resentment. He would stay on and try to cushion some of the damage which the Aztlans would inevitably cause, no matter how innocent their motives. And perhaps the President was right—perhaps the alien science would bring more good than harm.
FOR THE NEXT two years Matson watched the spread of Aztlan ideas throughout the world. He saw Aztlan devices bring health, food and shelter to millions in underprivileged countries, and improve the lot of those in more favored nations. He watched tyrannies and authoritarian governments fall under the passive resistance of their peoples. He saw militarism crumble to impotence as the Aztlan influence spread through every facet of society, first as a trickle, then as a steady stream, and finally as a rushing torrent. He saw Mankind on the brink of a Golden Age—and he was unsatisfied.
Reason said that the star men were exactly what they claimed to be. Their every action proved it. Their consistency was perfect, their motives unimpeachable, and the results of their efforts were astounding. Life on Earth was becoming pleasant for millions who never knew the meaning of the word. Living standards improved, and everywhere men were conscious of a feeling of warmth and brotherhood. There was no question that the aliens were doing exactly what they promised.
But reason also told him that the aliens were subtly and methodically destroying everything that man had created, turning him from an individual into a satisfied puppet operated by Aztlan strings. For man is essentially lazy—always searching for the easier way. Why should he struggle to find an answer when the Aztlans had discovered it millennia ago and were perfectly willing to share their knowledge? Why should he use inept human devices when those of the aliens performed similar operations with infinitely more ease and efficiency? Why should he work when all he had to do was ask? There was plan behind their acts.
But at that point reason dissolved into pure speculation. Why were they doing this? Was it merely mistaken kindliness or was there a deeper more subtle motive? Matson didn’t know, and in that lack of knowledge lay the hell in which he struggled.
For two years he stayed on with the OSR, watching humanity rush down an unmarked road to an uncertain future. Then he ran away. He could take no more of this blind dependence upon alien wisdom. And with the change in administration that had occurred in the fall elections he no longer had the sense of personal loyalty to the President which had kept him working at a job he despised. He wanted no part of this brave new world the aliens were creating. He wanted to be alone. Like a hermit of ancient times who abandoned society to seek his soul, Matson fled to the desert country of the Southwest—as far as possible from the Aztlans and their works.
The grimly beautiful land toughened his muscles, blackened his skin, and brought him a measure of peace. Humanity retreated to remoteness except for Seth Winters, a leathery old-timer he had met on his first trip into the desert. The acquaintance had ripened to friendship. Seth furnished a knowledge of the desert country which Matson lacked, and Matson’s money provided the occasional grubstake they needed. For weeks at a time they never saw another human—and Matson was satisfied. The world could go its own way. He would go his.
Running away was the smartest thing he could have done. Others more brave perhaps, or perhaps less rational—had tried to fight, to form an underground movement to oppose these altruists from space; but they were a tiny minority so divided in motives and purpose that they could not act as a unit. They were never more than a nuisance, and without popular support they never had a chance. After the failure of a complicated plot to assassinate the aliens, they were quickly rounded up and confined. And the aliens continued their work.
Matson shrugged. It was funny how little things could mark mileposts in a man’s life. If he had known of the underground he probably would have joined it and suffered the same penalty for failure. If he hadn’t fled, if he hadn’t met Seth Winters, if he hadn’t taken that last trip into the desert, if any one of a hundred little things had happened differently he would not be here. That last trip into the desert—he remembered it as though it were yesterday . . .
The yellow flare of a greasewood fire cast flickering spears of light into the encircling darkness. Above, in the purplish black vault of the moonless sky the stars shone down with icy splendor. The air was quiet, the evening breeze had died, and the
stillness of the desert night pressed softly upon the earth. Far away, muted by distance, came the ululating wail of a coyote.
Seth Winters laid another stick of quick-burning greasewood on the fire and squinted across the smoke at Matson who was lying on his back, arms crossed behind his head, eyeing the night sky with the fascination of a dreamer.
“It’s certainly peaceful out here,” Matson murmured as he rose to his feet, stretched, and sat down again looking into the tiny fire.
“ ’Tain’t nothin’ unusual, Dan’l. Not out here it ain’t. It’s been plumb peaceful on this here desert nigh onto a million years. An’ why’s it peaceful? Mainly ’cuz there ain’t too many humans messin’ around in it.”
“Possibly you’re right, Seth.”
“Shore I’m right. It jest ain’t nacheral fer a bunch of Homo saps to get together without an argyment startin’ somewhere. ’Tain’t the nature of the critter to be peaceable. An’ y’know, thet’s the part of this here sweetness an’ light between nations that bothers me. Last time I was in Prescott, I set down an’ read six months of newspapers—an’ everything’s jest too damn good to be true. Seems like everybody’s gettin’ to love everybody else.” He shook his head. “The hull world’s as sticky-sweet as molasses candy. It jest ain’t nacheral!”
“The star men are keeping their word. They said that they would bring us peace. Isn’t that what they’re doing?”
“Shucks Dan’l—that don’t give ’em no call to make the world a blasted honey-pot with everybody bubblin’ over with brotherly love. There ain’t no real excitement left. Even the Commies ain’t raisin’ hell like they useta. People are gettin’ more like a bunch of damn woolies every day.”
“I’ll admit that Mankind had herd instincts,” Matson replied lazily, “but I’ve never thought of them as particularly sheeplike. More like a wolf pack, I’d say.”