7 (JULY 28, MON.)
Never speak loudly to one another unless the house is on fire.
—Harold William Thompson
I'd got home pretty late, but the alarm clock went off at six, as usual, on Monday morning. It's at this time of day that I envy my city-dwelling brothers who can get up an hour later and reach their offices at the same time I do. Mae and I had bought a house in High Tor in preparation for the baby, who was scheduled to be born in late November. ("Beautiful timing," our tax accountant once said, thinking of the exemption which would be good for the entire year.)
I rescued the dew-soakedNew York Timesfrom the lawn. Its main headline, across four columns, said:
ALIENS KEEP PREACHER FROM PULPIT,CITING VILLAGE'S SUNDAY WORK BAN
The radio newscasts were hitting it hard, too. I listened to them as I brewed a pot of coffee.
Mae shuffled into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed, in her housecoat. "Why didn't you wake me up?" she asked.
"You have to sleep for two now," I told her.
"Nonsense," she said, giving me a kiss and looking at the front page. "What do you want for breakfast?"
"Eggs, sunny-side up, covered with Pep." You break the yolk and the Pep absorbs it.
"We don't have any Pep. How about corn flakes?"
"They're too big," I said. "You know that."
"I'm sure I'll never learn the fine points of these little mealtime foibles of yours. You want bread under the eggs then?"
"Obviously," I said. It's not obvious at all, of course, but Mae is very teasable.
"Honestly, Sam," she said as she buttered the frying pan, "you could let a little yolk run on the plate. I don't mind washing it off. You're not a bachelor any more, you know."
"I know that very well," I said. It isn't the washing so much as the waste that bothers me. I think occasionally of the tons of dried egg yolks being scraped into the garbage every morning and it gives my frugal soul the willies. "How's Junior today?"
"He's very happy. Not a peep out of her." Mae changes its sex with every reference to keep an open mind on the subject. She even occasionally refers to it in the plural just in case. "You don't think our children are going to suffer from these aliens, do you? I mean they're not going to have to live in oppression under the heel of the invader, are they?"
"Where did you getthat, for God's sake?"
"On the radio last night before you came home. It was that Clyde Witchburn. You know."
"Clyde Fitchburn. Don't listen to him. Listen to Ed Murrow or Eric Sevareid. Listen to me. But don't let that doom-shouter Fitchburn give you nightmares. It's not good for Junior."
"All right, Sam. You like the aliens, don't you?"
"I like the few I've met personally, but that doesn't mean I approve of everything they do or are capable of doing. I don't think they plan to grind us under the heel, though."
"Well, they're up to something. They didn't come all this way just to obey a lot of funny laws and get people's danders up. We must have something they want."
"Maybe we've got something they don't want," I said.
"Why would they land here, then?"
"To keep us from exporting it, now that we're on our way to the stars."
"Like what? Germs?"
"Sort of. Uncontrolled radiation, maybe."
Mae slid the eggs from the pan onto the two pieces of bread on my plate. She poured coffee for each of us and said, "Eat, now. It's six-thirty."
So it was. I was out of the house in ten minutes. I bought aHerald Tribunebefore I got on the bus, leaving theTimesfor Mae. The Trib had a righteous editorial headed "Abuse of Hospitality." I skimmed through it. It said about what you might expect. Lippmann wasn't in the paper that day and Alsop was discussing something else.
I folded the paper and wriggled around in the seat. Buses are like candy bars, I thought. The price goes up and the size goes down. Each new bus seemed to have less leg room and a lower headrest than its predecessor, so that you had to be a contortionist to take a nap.
I had found a reasonably comfortable position when two men got on, took the seats behind me and continued a discussion they'd been having about the aliens.
"I told Alice they'd better not fool around with the church in our town."
"Damn right."
"I said you can go so far, but some things you just don't fool around with."
"You said it."
"I told her, 'Alice,' I said, 'you mark my words, just let them try in Old Corners what they did in Middle Valley and there'll be trouble'."
"What did she say?"
"She agreed a hundred per cent, of course. Now I'm not a fellow who goes every week—you know; but Easter, maybe Palm Sunday, and Christmas—but by God some things are sacred.
"I tell you I got so mad when I saw that on the television. If that's the way things can happen, I told Alice, I said, 'Listen, if this is what they expect us to put up with, believe me, they've got another think coming.' You don't just take something like that sitting down."
"I should say not. Why, I said the same thing to——"
"I mean there's a limit. I don't pay much attention to what goes on at the UN—I don't suppose anybody does—but when it gets as close as this, I tell you, things have come to a pretty pass, my friend, a pretty pass indeed."
"They sure have, I told Virginia—"
"I'll bet you did. It's a crying shame when a bunch of fancy Dans from Lord knows where can walk in on us and try to upset the things we hold sacred...."
This stimulating conversation must have put me to sleep because the next thing I knew somebody was tapping me on the shoulder and saying, "Last stop, Mac."
I said thanks and got out.
A bar on Eighth Avenue had a new banner up over its door. "Welcome Monolithans," it said. My copy-reader's eye noted the misspelling. Nobody inside looked fancy enough to be one of the alien Dans.
The teletypes were clattering away at World Wide. The summer doldrums were sure over.
"'Morning, Sam," the copy boy said. "How about some coffee?"
"'Morning, Herb," I said. "That's the first intelligent remark I've heard in some time."
"Heavy on the milk?"
"That's right—Earth-style."
Charlie Price was pecking away at the typewriter.
"'Morning, Charlie. What's doing?"
"Somebody called up from an outfit called the Society for the Prevention of Alien Domination of Earth. Ever hear of it?"
"No, but the initials spell 'spade.' Are you sure it wasn't some bright P.R.O. for a playing-card company?"
"Never thought of that, but it could be. There's something in it about digging in and holding the line. I'll finish it and leave it for you."
"Good." Herb brought my coffee and I sat down to read the file.
"John Hyatt's in already," Charlie said.
"Already? He was on the desk yesterday, too. He must be alien-happy."
"How'd you make out in Middle Valley? I saw you got a byline."
"Well, I didn't get a chance to put any expense money in the collection plate," I said.
Charlie didn't answer that and I wondered if I'd offended him. I went back to reading the file.
I had barely taken over from Charlie when John Hyatt came into the news room. "Hi, Sam," he said. "I've been on the phone with Riddie. She was about as informative as an AEC handout, but I gather something's up. I'll take the desk again today. The Chicago crowd'll be in soon to help here. I'd like you and Stew to shoot up to the Waldorf. I don't know what's cooking but I suspect the aliens may be in a flap over their shenanigans yesterday. Nice story, incidentally. It got splashed all over Europe, according to the play report."
"Good. And thanks for the byline."
"You deserved it. Sometimes I wonder why we're wasting you on the desk."
"I like the regular hours," I said.
"Well, it looks as if regular hours are going to be out the window for the duration."
"Where is Stew?"
"He'll be in at nine. You make a good team, you and Stew. I've noticed that. I'd like you to keep as much of an eye on Riddie as on the Monolithians, if you can. I suspect that little gal knows a lot more about what's going on than she pretends. Get her off in a corner and pump her, if you can."
"Shall I bring flowers?"
I meant it sarcastically, but John said, "She's not the bouquet type, but Head Office has authorized extraordinary expenses for this story. The sky's the limit. Make love to her, if you can stand it, but find out what the hell is cooking."
Nancy Corelli had been all ears. "You never authorized him to make love to me on the expense account," she told John. "We could have had some high old times."
"I'm shocked, Nan," said John, who hadn't been shocked since he climbed a high tension pole as a kid in ought-eight. "You're a married woman."
"Sam's married, too, don't forget," Nancy said. "And here you are egging him on to go to bed with that old broad."
"Just a figure of speech, Mrs. Corelli. Suppose you let us old trenchcoat boys cover the story and you concentrate on sending it to London."
Nancy accepted the rebuke in her own fashion. "I'm glad I have an honest job, at least," she said.
Stew Macon came in. "I see by the daily press there have been a number of developments since I left the shop last Friday," he said to John and me. "Good morning, Nancy."
"Don't talk to them, Stew," Nancy said. "They'll corrupt you, the old lechers."
"Now what's this all about?" Stew asked.
"Tell you in the taxi," I said. "Don't take your coat off. We're on detached service."
"Good enough. But I hope you have a big cash reserve, Sam. I happen to have spent—and I use the term advisedly—a very expensive week end."
"Keep in touch," John said. "There are two of you, so let's have a phone call every so often even if nothing's doing."
I filled Stew in as the cab driver wended us uptown.
"I wasn't kidding about being broke, Sam. This little babe I met had very expensive tastes."
"I'm good for about thirty bucks," I said. "Then I'll have to get a refill from petty cash."
"There's nothing petty about cash," Stew said.
Eurydice Playfair's suite was crowded to its expensive walls with reporters, State Department people, Pentagon people—including some high brass in uniform—and waiters. A bar was set up along one wall.
"At this hour of the morning?" I asked her.
"It's there for them as wants it," Riddie said. She was drinking coffee herself.
There didn't seem to be any Monolithians present yet, but then no one could tell for sure. I asked Riddie.
"No," she said. "We're saving them for the floor show."
"Something big?"
"I didn't lay on this spread just to say hello."
"Do they know what's going to happen?" I said, meaning the U.S.A. contingent from Washington.
"No, they're just liaison. But, believe me, they're fairly perishing to know."
"Whatever it is, will it make them gasp in the Ginza?" I asked.
"Sam," she said, "this'll pierce them in the Place Pigalle."
"Ah," I said, "but will it crush them in the Kremlin?"
"I have no more to say right now. Why don't you have some coffee?"
"I think I'll have a weak little Scotch and soda, if it's all the same to you."
"It's not the same as coffee, that's for sure."
A man from theJournal-Americantook her away and I went to the bar. Stew was already there with a glass of something that was neither small nor weak.
"Did you pump her, Sam?" he asked.
"She's a dry well."
"I have circumnavigated the room and there is nothing. Sealed are the lips. Or blank are the minds, I don't know which."
"You sound as if you've been talking to the man fromTime. Give John a call, will you, Stew? He might want a little color story."
"He always wants a little color story." He went off to one of the two-dozen telephones Riddie had provided.
I asked the barman to weaken up my drink with more soda. Caterers are always very generous with the customer's whiskey.
Riddie got up on a chair at the end of the room and clapped her hands.
"I guess everybody's here," she said. "I've asked you to come here this morning, ladies and gentlemen, to meet two other members of the ambassadorial staff from Monolithia. They will enter through this door on my right in a moment. Before they do, you may wish to make a note of their names. They are Mr. Quy—spelled Q-u-y but pronounced 'Key'—and Mr. Brown."
Stew, back from the telephone, whispered, "Have you noticed how all of them have one-syllable names?"
I nodded as I wrote them down.
Somebody asked Riddie, "Would it be correct to assume that these gentlemen hold a higher position in the Monolithian government than the ones we've previously met?"
"Not at all," Riddie said. "Everyone in Monolithia is equal. Each has the rank of Ambassador."
"But," the questioner persisted, "maybe these new ones intend to apologize for the incidents of yesterday in Middle Valley."
"Certainly not," Riddie said. "The Ambassadors who visited Middle Valley acted in complete accordance with the law. There is not the slightest doubt in any Monolithian mind on that score."
"So much for John Hyatt's hunch," I muttered.
Stew spoke up. "Would you say, Riddie, that there was complete and unanimous support for the Middle Valley delegation among the Monolithians?"
"Yes, I would. To them, laws were made to be obeyed."
"How about the groundswell of protest ..." somebody else started to ask, but Riddie raised her hands.
"Please," she said. "What happened yesterday has no connection with this meeting. In fact, I think you'll have a bigger story today if you'll just let me get on with it. I'll now ask the Ambassadors I've named to step into the room."
The door opened. The two men came in. They were dressed in the same conservative style as their predecessors. But their faces were different. Mr. Quy was an Oriental. Mr. Brown was a Negro.
I'd dictated my story and turned the phone over to Stew to elaborate on it. Riddie came over carrying two drinks. She handed one to me. "It's not weak this time," she said. "I figured you could use it."
"Thanks," I said, taking a good swallow.
"Well, Sam," she said. "Is this a story or isn't it? Do you think it'll fracture them in France?"
"Baby," I told her, "you're too far out. This will lay them low in Little Rock!"