"What time is it?" I asked. My eyes were still closed, and I was damned
if I was going to open them.
"Three fifty-seven. But what is--"
"Defense mech," I said. "Right on time. Every twelve hours. Tries to get
me. Now go sleep."
I rolled over and shut my eyes even tighter--but I couldn't get all the
way back to sleep. Not back down to the warm, dark depths. It was a long
time before Maxwell even lay back down, and he rolled and twisted for
the rest of the night. At six o'clock, he fell into a deep, quiet
slumber, and I was wide awake, damn him. So I got up and dressed.
I found a news magazine I hadn't read, and occupied myself with it for
an hour. Practically the entire issue was devoted to an analysis of the
Martian immigration.
It went way back into history and discussed the folklore fear that
humans had for centuries about a Martian invasion. And it pointed out
that something very like a Martian invasion was taking place right now.
One particular article concluded with what I considered an unnecessarily
grim warning that unless something were done soon to check the flow of
immigrants, Earth would soon be overrun with Martians.
Other articles in the magazine went into the causes and implications of
the migration. One of the writers pointed out that Mars is a dying
planet. In only a few thousand years, it will be too cold, too dry and
too airless to support life.
The development of interplanetary travel a century earlier had provided
the inhabitants with a means of escape. They could survive on Earth; now
they could get to Earth; so they came to Earth.
One full article was devoted to the debates and pending legislation in
World Council on the subject, but I didn't take the time to read it. I
was fairly familiar with the current controversy, having followed the
daily news reports, and besides, the reading was giving me a headache.
* * * * *
At seven o'clock, I considered going down for breakfast, but it occurred
to me that it would be another black mark against Maxwell if I should be
seen without him. Forgetting about the defense mech was enough for one
case.
So I ordered breakfast brought up to the room. While I was waiting, and
since I was sitting near it anyway, I flicked the TV switch and tuned in
on the morning's news. Nothing earthshaking: a factory explosion in St.
Louis; political unrest in India; death of a Vegan millionaire; speech
in The World Council by Delegate Machavowski of Eurasia in support of
the Bagley-Dalton bill to establish a yearly immigration quota of ten
thousand from all planets, one thousand from Mars; protest reply by a
Martian sociologist at Yale; spacecruiser crashed on Calypso, twenty
killed. And so on and so on.
My attention was held momentarily by the Martian question, since I was
freshly informed on it.
While the two views of the issue did nothing to settle it in my mind,
they did serve to remind me of my Martian friend, Zan Matl Blekeke, and
the fact that I was supposed to be digging up a feature story on
Suns-Rays Incorporated.
"What's on the agenda for today?" my pseudo-brother-in-law asked as I
was finishing my coffee a half-hour later. He rolled out of bed, yawned
and scratched his head vigorously. His hair was rumpled, but he looked
rested, and I envied him to beat hell.
"You mean it's up to me?" I asked.
"Sure. You just go on with your normal everyday existence and ignore me,
like I'm nothing but a shadow." He was still stretching lazily.
"Well, for the first thing, I'm going to see that we get a cot in here.
There isn't room in that bed for both of us."
Maxwell grinned as he buttoned his shirt. "D'I kick you out of bed?
Sorry. Should have warned you."
"Do you eat breakfast?" I asked him.
"Hell, yes. Like a wolf."
"Well, let's go down and get you some breakfast while I figure out my
agenda for today."
* * * * *
I wasn't sure what I wanted to do--start working on that SRI feature, I
supposed, so I could get it out of the way and either relax or
concentrate on this telenosis business, which I was supposed to be
forgetting about. I had most of the dope I needed for the
story--atmosphere, first hand experience....
Everything, it occurred to me, but the essential facts.
For instance, I would need to know more about Zan Blekeke
himself--simple biographical data that shouldn't take too long to
gather. A harder job would be finding out about "Dear Late Doctor." So
far I didn't even know what his name was. And if none of the SRI members
would talk about him....
As Maxwell and I sat at a breakfast room table, I made a mental
checklist of the points I would have to work on. I was staring out the
window at the flowers staging a color-riot in the garden, when suddenly
Maxwell said:
"Say, Earl, about how long does it take to find out a guy's brain wave
band?"
"Huh? What do you mean?" I looked at him. He was shoveling pancakes into
his mouth like a fireman stoking a furnace.
He shrugged and swallowed. "You said there was no danger from telenosis
until they found my wave band. Well, last night I had the damnedest
nightmares, and I was just wondering--"
"Relax," I said. "Ever been telenized?"
"Not that I know of."
"Got nothin' to worry about, then. If you had been telenized, it's just
possible they could have gotten your band number from the Telenosis
Bureau. Which, by God, come to think of it, is where they probably got
mine. But without that, or an electroencaphalograph, it'd take weeks, at
least."
"But can't it influence a lot of people at once? I mean, like mass
hypnosis?"
"Sure be hell if it could," I said. "But I don't think it can. I don't
know why not, but I definitely remember old Doc Reighardt saying it'd
never been done."
He seemed to feel better. He finished his breakfast in relative silence.
I was able to map out a general procedure for gathering all of the
necessary SRI information.
First step was to get hold of Zan Blekeke again and have him tell me his
life history. I shuddered at the prospect, but it had to be done.
"We're going to East Emerson beach," I told John Maxwell.
On the way, aboard a third-level bus, I asked him, "SRI ever been
investigated by you people?"
"Damn if I know. Why?"
"Never mind. Save me a lot of trouble, maybe, if it had. Just a
thought."
We found the SRI cultists at their usual place on the beach. It was a
stretch on the far south end, a rough, gravelly portion quite a bit
beyond the army of regular bathers.
As we approached, threading our way through the maze of umbrellas,
tablecloths and people, people, people in practically all stages of
nudity, I noticed that a makeshift rope fence enclosed the little group
of SRIs where they were sprawled out doing their relaxing exercises.
That was something new--the fence, I mean.
I started to crawl through the ropes, and one of the nearby recliners
jumped to his feet, stood in front of me and made pushing motions with
his hands.
"I'm sorry, sirs, but this is a meeting of The Suns-Rays Incorporated
religious group. You are requested not to enter."
Now, he knew better than to say a silly thing like that to me. His name
was Monte Bingham, and he knew damn well who I was, and I told him so.
"I'm practically an ex-officio member in good standing myself," I said.
"Wake up, you goof."
Monte Bingham turned slowly around and looked toward the big Martian,
Zan Blekeke, who was sitting up with his spindly legs outstretched near
the center of the enclosure.
Blekeke got to his feet and waddled toward us, waving Bingham aside. He
was not smiling. He stood glaring at us.
"Whose?" he said with a swift, half-gesture toward Maxwell.
"Whose?" I repeated. "He's mine. I mean, he's my brother-in-law, John
Maxwell, come to visit me from Sacramento. He's okay. What's going on? I
just wanted to make an appointment to talk with you."
Blekeke heaved his big round bare chest. "Trying still disciple in," he
replied.
"How's that? Discipline, you mean?"
"Yups. Laters out. Strangers out. No excepting. Can't."
"Yeah, but you know me, and John here--"
"Brother law oaks, but both laters. See hall hour halfish. Talk then.
Treatment, yups?"
I said, "Well, I guess that'll be okay. Hour and a half, at the hall,
huh?"
Blekeke said, "Yups," and turned away.
* * * * *
He took two steps and stopped. I saw his spine stiffen. His head turned
slowly toward the water's edge where two dogs were running circles
around each other, not far from the enclosure. As the dogs moved,
Blekeke's head moved with them, back and forth and back again....
Suddenly one of the dogs, the smaller one--a black and white spaniel
with flapping ears--turned and raced through the SRI compound, bounding
gracelessly over the sprawled bodies of SRI members. The larger German
shepherd gave two woofs and leaped playfully in pursuit. They passed
within about ten feet of Blekeke.
When the German shepherd barked, I heard a thin, drawn-out squeak, like
a mouse with his tail caught in a trap, come from Blekeke. He turned
around with incredible speed and took a half-step in our direction. His
face was distorted as though in pain, and for an instant I thought he
had stepped on a jagged piece of glass or something.
But then I recognized the expression on his face. It was not pain.
It was terror.
I noticed now that he was trembling violently. He twirled again and
started in the opposite direction, stopped and turned swiftly around
once more. He acted as though he were surrounded on all sides by
invisible Martian-eaters.
The dogs paused at the edge of the enclosure for a moment to stand on
their hind legs and exchange playful blows; then they raced off together
toward the more densely populated beach area.
Blekeke's face suddenly relaxed, and with a final shudder he controlled
the trembling.
He was muttering: "Doggie, doggie, doggie" when he lowered his eyes to
us, and he gave a little start as if he hadn't known we were standing
there.
"Hall. Hour halfish," he said after a moment's pause. Then he turned and
walked rapidly back into the midst of the prostrate SRI members and lay
down.
Maxwell and I exchanged glances and walked away. I felt, all of a
sudden, rather sad and depressed. When we had gone a respectable
distance, I said, "Poor devil! Fear of dogs. It must be awful."
"Fear of dogs? Cynophobia? You think that's what it was?"
"Well, sure," I replied. "Only thing it could be."