18 (AUG. 8, FRI.)
They did not see it until the atomic bombs burst in their fumbling hands.
—H. G. Wells, 1914
Mae had heard the news on the radio and TV, of course, and she was pretty well prepared for what I had to tell her—that I was going off into space with the world's big wheels. Naturally she didn't like it, but for a reason I hadn't suspected. She told me about it in the morning over my Pep and eggs.
"It seems to me, Sam, that you've been acting very peculiar ever since you took this new job. And I don't just mean your worry about your new responsibilities. I can understand that. What I don't understand is why you've become so cool towards me."
"Why, honey!" I said, really surprised. "That's not so at all."
"Oh, isn't it! I get the impression that I'm being taken for granted; that I'm supposed to be satisfied with a little pat on the head now and again while you cavort around with your high and mighty new friends. You never take me anywhere any more. Why? Is it because I'm so ugly—so—so—misshapen?"
"Mae!" I was shocked. "Now you cut that right out!"
"Well, sometimes I wonder. Then there's that Linx girl. You never told me about her—and you should have, if there's nothing to hide."
"For heaven's sake, Mae," I said. "Of course there's nothing to hide. Why, you'rejealous, aren't you?"
"Certainly I'm jealous. Is that so strange? It isn't as if you'd been honest with me and said there was this girl, but that I'm prettier in spite of my condition——"
"Now, Mae," I said. "You are prettier—and it'sbecauseof your condition. Who told you about Joy anyway? I'll bet it was that Ann McEachern—she's jealous herself because I've got a good job and her Ian's temporarily out of work. There's nothing about Joy, any more than there is to tell about my three telephones. I never had three telephones before, either."
"Well ..." Mae said. "If you're sure."
"Sure I'm sure. Now you just stop worrying your pretty head about stupid nonsense like that and give me a kiss good-bye. I'll be back by Sunday or Monday." I picked up my bag.
"All right," she said. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to go, but I know you have to. And I feel better knowingshewon't be going, either."
I put the bag down again.
"Mae," I said. "Listen, Mae."
She burst into tears.
"Now, Mae!"
"Sheisgoing!" Mae sobbed. "Oh-h-h!"
"Yes, she is. And so is the President, and so are several prime ministers and premiers and that imbecile Addison Madison and Mox and protocol officers and the Secretary-General and a whole gaggle of Monolithians. For Pete's sake, Mae! This is probably the most important conference ever held in the history of man, not a week end at Atlantic City!"
It took me half an hour to calm her down and get away. I was much lower in my mind by then and not at all convinced that Mae understood, though she had put on a brave face.
Joy, the object of my wife's concern, was waiting for me at the office with a new crisis.
"Sam," she said, "I tried to get you at home, but you'd left."
"You mean you talked to Mae?"
"Yes. She's sweet. We had a nice chat."
I groaned. "You'd better get her back for me. Never mind; I'll get her later. What's the matter?"
"The press is coming, too."
"That's impossible! We'd have to take at least one from every country represented. There isn't room."
"Yes there is. The Monolithians provided another ship. I've got the list drawn up. All you have to do is check it over."
"All right. Let me see it."
They were all there: AP and UPI, representing a North American press pool; radio and TV men, magazine writers, Reuters, France Presse, Tass, Press Trust of India, New China News and so forth. Somebody had exerted the influence of the host country and worked in such supernumeraries as the Voice of America, World Wide, Continental Broadcasting and our old friend Clyde B. Fitchburn. I was glad to see Stew Macon's name next to WW's.
"Fine," I said, initialing the list and handing it back to Joy. "When do we leave? Same time?"
"Yes. Noon by helicopter from the back lawn."
"Good. You all ready yourself, Joy?"
"Yop. Got my toothbrush, wash-'n'-dry undies and spare lipstick." She gave me a wink I didn't entirely fathom and went into her own office, saying, "Better call your wife, now."
I dialed our Bethesda number and talked to Mae for about five minutes. You can say a lot in that time, but for the life of me all I could remember of Mae's conversation was, "I love you and I know you love me. I'm sorry I made that fuss about Joy Linx. We had a nice chat. I think she's sweet."
I went out to the helicopter a very confused man.
At Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland we transferred from the helicopter to two space ships. The helicopters had been jam-packed, but there was room to spare on the ships.
I had a cabin next to the President's suite, and Joy's was next to mine. World Wide, the Voice of America and Continental shared one across the corridor, but the AP, Reuters and the other independent agencies were on the second ship, fuming, I'm sure, at the discrimination—especially since the British, French and German summitters were on ours. Presumably there was going to be a sort of sub-summit conference en route.
I had a big question that I wanted answered before the press got at me and, as soon as we were settled, I knocked at the President's door.
"Come in," Gov said. "Oh, hello, Sam. What's up?"
I asked my question: "Who represents the Monolithians?"
"Shut the door, Sam, and sit down. I can answer that several ways. One, by saying they all represent each other, like bees in a hive or ants in a hill—a sort of group intelligence with nobody's thinking very far out of line from anybody else's. Two, by saying their big wheel at the moment is that Addison Madison, or Frij, fellow, a more insulting parody of an American Earthman than I could have imagined possible. Three, by saying I haven't the faintest idea who they'll produce when they get us to Ultra—quite possibly someone who's never been to Earth at all. Any other questions?"
"Yes, sir, if you don't mind. What are you and the Big Three Europeans going to discuss before you get to Ultra?"
"I frankly don't know, son, but I can make a guess. We'll probably have a few drinks and talk about the good old days when all we had to worry about was the Russian or the Chinese menace."
I started to interrupt, but Gov held up a hand. "I know you can't put that in a communiqué. All right, you can say we had a frank and wide-ranging exchange of views and vowed to take any steps, consistent with honor, that would advance the cause of international and interplanetary peace. That ought to be diplomatic and obfuscatory enough for anybody."
I grinned. "Yes, sir. The cast may change, but never the language."
Gov smiled back, but with an effort.
"Better get back to your cabin now and batten down," he said. "I understand a Monolithian blast-off is a lot kinder to the kidneys than anything our astronauts had to go through, but it's still no bed of nasturtiums. The things they expect an old boy to put up with for his country.... I'm glad I've taken my last oath of office."
I left the President settling down into his padded couch and went to my own.
The blast-off was a short nightmare of vibration and pressure. Then it was over. There was a moment of nauseous weightlessness before the artificial gravity took hold and a soothing chime sounded which, we'd been told, meant we could get up and move about normally.
My door opened and Stew Macon started to come in. He changed his mind when he saw the British Prime Minister, the French President and the German Chancellor go by on their way to Gov's suite. But Stew was back soon.
"They won't talk," he said. "I didn't really think they would."
"Never mind," I told him. "I've got it all here."
"What they're going to say?"
"What they will have officially said. It's not very much."
"Let me have it now. I'll put it out under embargo."
"No you won't. You'll get it after they come out and I've radioed it to the boys in the other ship. I don't want them any sorer at us than they are already."
Stew looked hurt. "I thought we were pals."
"Pals-schmals, this is official business. Why don't you go up to the bridge and see who's driving? That ought to make a dandy feature."
"Continental's doing that on tape. They're going to fill me in later."
"What's the Voice doing?"
"Rehashing the AP and Reuters," Stew said disgustedly. "I tell you, this being subsidized is for the birds. You're further away from the news than anybody else."
"True," I said. "And if I were still with WW I'd complain."
"Yeah? To who?"
"To the Presidential Press Secretary, for instance."
"That's you. A big help you are."
"Them's the conditions that prevail."
"Funny man," Stew said. "Jimmy Durante."
There was a knock on my door and Joy Linx came in.
"Hello, men," she said. "How are the old space voyagers?"
"Nuts," Stew said. "I've had bigger thrills on the Staten Island ferry."
"Sam, I've got the radioteletype set up for the communiqué. Want to check it out?"
"Sure." We all went into her office-cabin.
"Just the one machine," Joy said. "The press ship is tuned in and drop copies go to WW, Continental and the Voice here."
"Fine." I sat down and typed:
KENT HERE. TESTING.
The reply was: WHIRLPOOL HERE. GA.
"Whirlpool?" I asked Joy. "What have they got, a sponsor?"
She laughed. "It's their code name. It stands for World Press Pool."
"Oh." I typed:
WESTERN BIG FOUR BEGAN SHIPBOARD SUBSUMMIT TALKS AT 1607 EDT. EXPECT TO HAVE BRIEF COMMUNIQUE SOON. ALL FOR NOW.
ROGER, the reply came: OVER AND OUT.
"Incurious bunch," Stew said. "Don't they have any questions?"
"I guess they prefer not to be confused by our meager facts. Makes it easier for them to interview each other and bat out learned think-pieces."
The Western Big Four ended their conference, or whatever it was, and Gov called me to say I could release the communiqué. I tried to get him to elaborate on it, or at least tell me off the record what they'd really discussed, but he refused. Gov sounded tired and irritable.
I put the communiqué on the teletype to the other ship and told them there was nothing else at the moment. Again there was a surprising lack of curiosity from the free press. They asked a couple of routine questions and I answered them and shut down the machine. I was beginning to feel rebuked and useless.
"Do they have a bar on this boat?" I asked Joy, who was filing away a copy of the uninformative communiqué in an impressive leather-bound folder labeled in gold: MONOLITHIA-ULTRA.
"Well now," she said, "I'm glad you asked me that question. Yes, as a matter of fact. And would you be after offering to buy me a drink?"
"I most delightedly would," I said. "Or two or three."
Relaxed now at the bar, with Joy on the stool beside me and a tall drink on the mahogany, I had time to think.
Joy said, "A penny for your thoughts."
I roused myself from my reverie and said, "I was just wondering what's going to be the outcome of all this."
"A good wonder," she said. "I guess it's worth a penny. Frankly, I don't worry much about it. Assuming, of course, that we all come through it with our health, happiness and honor intact."
The Monolithian bartender was in front of us suddenly. He smiled.
There was a snort from our right. It was a man of about sixty who was drinking a Pernod.
"Ah, a philosopher," Joy said.
The man picked up his drink, admired its cloudy color and took a sip before replying. "I am indeed," he said. "My eyes are wide open and unfilmed."
"Whoseeyes?" I said.
"Mine—the eyes of Clyde B. Fitchburn, student of men."
"Fitchburn!" I said. "The renowned crier of doom?"
"Theformercrier of doom," he said placidly. "Student of men and current employee of Monolithia. My cries are stilled while I remain on the payroll. What's your excuse, Mr. Kent? And yours, Miss Linx?"
I didn't like his tone. "Now look—" I started to say, but Joy put her hand on my arm.
"He's got a point," she said. "Aren't we all on the payroll?"
I had to admit in my secret mind that this was a valid point. But I said, "Let's leave us out of it. We don't matter, except to ourselves——"
"Oh, but we do," Fitchburn said. "We matter in direct ratio to the millions, or thousands, or even one that we influence. But go on, Kent."
He was an irritating man because he was speaking the truth—perhaps for the first time in his life.
"All right," I said angrily. "We matter to some extent. I grant you that—and that influence on one person, rightly exerted, can change the course of empire. But our influence is insignificant compared with that of the big boys. And we've got the biggest boys in the world aboard. What'stheirexcuse?"
Clyde B. Fitchburn took out a crushable pack and lit a thinking-man's cigarette. The bartender rushed over to light it for him.
"Thank you," Fitchburn said to the Monolithian. "Listen if you like. I know you will anyway."
The bartender smiled and deliberately went to the other end of the bar. I was sure he could hear just as well from there.
Fitchburn turned back to Joy and me. "Each of us has his own secret soul," he said, and punctuated that profound remark with a sip of Pernod. "I took this job, which entailed an end to my well-known destructive criticism of the administration, because my third wife has gone into court with a demand for more alimony. For me it's as simple as that. I can fight the demand with lawyers, or I can pay. Either way I need more money. You, Miss Linx, took your job because you saw a possibility of meeting more important people and thus advancing your career—or alternatively, meeting more interesting people and perhaps finding an intelligent and well-to-do mate. Am I not right, my dear?"
"Look, Joy," I said, "we don't have to sit here and listen to this——"
"Simmer down, Sam," she said. "Mr. Fitchburn's honesty is refreshing, if not altogether flattering. Mr. Fitchburn—may I call you Clyde?"
"Please do."
"Clyde," she said, "I admire you. Frankly, I always dialed you out when I accidently heard you on the air. It's a pity more people can't hear you over a drink, without benefit of microphone. A frank question, Clyde: What do you now consider your role to be?"
"An easy question from a friend," Fitchburn said. "I am, as of 48 hours ago, approximately, an apologist for the well-paying Monolithians. And you, Miss Linx?"
"Joy," she said. "A fearful Joy, perhaps, to steal the words of Mr. Cary, but an honest one, I hope. My role? You've already said it, Clyde. Meeting interesting, friendly people, with a loving but calculating female eye to the future. There—now I've said it, too."
"But what do you fear?" Fitchburn asked.
"That the Monolithians are not all they profess to be. That their humanity—their seeming friendliness to us Earthpeople—is motivated by something we don't know anything about. That in the end we're all going to be more miserable for it—if we exist to be miserable at all."
I ate a pretzel, feeling like a supernumerary carrying a rubber-tipped spear. I ate several pretzels, moodily, recalling my experience in the spaceship in the woods, my imprisonment and brain-picking and the covey of doubles for famous personages. And who were those aboard this spaceship? The real articles or the Monolithian duplicates?
"You'll get fat, eating all those pretzels," Joy said.
Clyde had said something to her and she to him and now she was worried about me. I was worried about me, too, and it had nothing to do with pretzels. It had to do with the whole human race.
"How well do you know President Allison?" I asked Clyde.
"As well as any reporter does," he said. "Maybe better—I had a private interview with him about a year ago."
"And the British Prime Minister? And the Frenchman and the German?"
"Slightly. I've met them at receptions a few times. Why?"
"Have you talked to them since they came aboard?"
"Yes. Not long. Just to say hello. What are you getting at, Kent?"
"I'm not sure. Did they look all right to you?"
"They all seemed weary and irritable, but otherwise okay. Two of them even remembered my name, which is a damn good average."
"What's this all about, Sam?" Joy asked. "You sound as if you have some inside information."
"I do," I said. "But I wonder what good it does me. It's something like a movie you've seen before. You know how it's going to end and there's no way to change it."
"My, you're morbid," Joy said. "I hope your movie had a happy ending."
Clyde Fitchburn had been gazing into his Pernod. "I've been thinking," he said to Joy. "The things our young friend here has been saying—or hinting—are beginning to tie in. I did notice something about our VIP's. Yes, definitely, now that I think of it. They looked tired, as I said. But that other thing I noticed—as I think back, it seems to me it wasn't just irritation. No; they were frightened. Yes, that's the word. Frightened. Scared to death."
"You mean they were afraid of this trip?" Joy asked. "I can't blame them for that. I'm still a little queasy after that takeoff. Little old internal organs may never be the same."
"Not that," Clyde said. "There was nothing cowardly about their fear. I know I'm expressing this badly, but it seemed to me that their trepidation was not for themselves—they're bigger men than that. No, it was as if there were something they were being forced to do—something that each had decided for himself had to be done. Each had made this great decision he could not avoid. It had to be made and each knew it was as right as any decision he hadevermade. But having made it, he wasn't sure the next step, which was out of his hands, would be the right one. Each of them—yes, I'm convinced of it now—was frightened for all humanity."
The bartender came over and said, "You are all very amusing, but while you have been libeling the Monolithians, one of your Earth nations has begun a war against the rest of your unhappy planet."
"What?" I said. "Which one?"
"What do you mean?" Joy asked. "How?"
Clyde Fitchburn merely twirled his glass in his hand and smiled sadly.
"You would not suspect. A tiny Caribbean country. The one ruled by that man with the big mouth. I believe it's called El Spaniola."