The landscape beneath the Martian mother ship was changing rapidly now,
but no Martian eyes watched a lake sweep into view and the dwarfed
evergreens surrender their sovereignty to a forest of tall, straight
pines, their boles dark against the pale, blue-gray sky. A speedboat
came suddenly into view from behind a mile-wide island densely
overgrown with scrub oak and hemlocks, and headed northward, throwing
up a curtain of silvery spray that slowly blended with the haze that
hung over the southern part of the lake.
The observation compartment was deserted and only the
tele-communication screen opposite the view-glass glimmered with light
and movement.
The light was very bright, the movements of absorbing interest to
Martian eyes on every ship that had tuned in on that particular
broadcast. Twenty-two Martian ships had tuned in. On the screen a man
was fitting a key into a lock in the hallway of a building in New York
City.
The man was an artist and every Martian watcher knew that the man's
name was David Loring. They knew that he was about to walk into the
apartment and change the entire pattern of his life. And that change
would be a small but vital part of a larger change--the Martian
pattern for world conquest.
It was all a part of the Great Plan. And every Martian knew exactly
what that plan would do to the man even if he failed to behave as he
was expected to behave. Even if he failed. He was in deadly danger,
but he did not know that and it was not important that he should know.
Nothing but the Great Plan itself was important.
It was a plan tremendous in scope, unbelievable in its daring.
It was a plan that had to succeed or Martian hopes would go down into
everlasting night and darkness. It was a plan for the conquest of
Earth by infiltration. But it was not the infiltration of spies and
fifth-columnists. Not even the infiltration of skillfully trained
saboteurs. It was a quite different kind of infiltration.
To perfect the Great Plan five hundred women had been captured
and studied. And five hundred men. Their desires, hopes, dreams,
intelligence native and acquired, manner of thinking, loving, dressing,
walking, eating, sleeping; their habits and methods of choice in every
aspect of living, taste in women--or, in the case of the women, men.
Sex proclivities, sex drives, physical appeal, were all approached
scientifically, and the effects of enhancement of the sex urge and what
happens when it is enormously diminished by accident or design.
The Earth people were kept in captivity for eight months and then
released, with all knowledge of what had happened to them blotted from
their minds.
Five hundred men. Five hundred women. Living models. Living models
for--what?
Only the Martians knew.
The Great Plan was protected, guarded, veiled in secrecy. But now one
man was about to know, to be tested, to enter into the inner workings
of the Plan. His name was David Loring and he was an artist and he was
a man of very great talent, perhaps even a man of creative genius.
One man alone first and then ten thousand men, the wielders of
political and social power, statesmen, generals, industrialists of the
first rank, influential moulders of public opinion, atomic physicists,
the key men in a hundred laboratories. Ten thousand men who could
strategically determine, by the power invested in them whether human
civilization should resist or surrender when the Martian mask was
lowered and Martian intentions were made unmistakably plain.
Ten thousand men who must be made to say: "We must surrender. We shall.
The Martians will not destroy us. They wish only to live with us in
peace, in a world so strangely beautiful that we cannot understand why
we were content to live in the world as it was,--with its poverty and
wars and widespread human misery. We have received from the Martians a
living gift that has transformed our lives and made us men indeed. Let
us surrender freely and joyfully, with everlasting gratefulness to the
gift-bearers."
Ten thousand women too, in high places, in the front ranks of industry
and politics, women of enormous wealth, of great and commanding
talents who had found no man to please them, or had foolishly allowed
themselves to believe that they did not need men to enrich their lives
and continuously adore them. Ten thousand women who must also be made
to say: "Let us surrender with gratitude, for in the world as it was
there was no true happiness for career women. Now all that is changed
and we are deliriously happy."
In the thrumming observation compartment of the mother ship, as it
moved southward toward New York City, the landscape beneath a riot
of autumn colors, the sky clearing now and the haze dissolving, the
tele-communication screen continued to glow brightly.
And on the screen the man named David Loring was moving into a room
fragrant with woman-scent, with the lingering perfume of his beloved
and another perfume that mingled strangely with it, barely noticed but
impinging on his senses in a subtle, and beguiling way--the odor of
jasmine.
A low, droning sound arose suddenly in the observation compartment and
a wall panel swung open.
Two Martians stood framed in the lighted aperture, remaining for a
moment motionless, neither advancing nor retreating, but staring
steadily at the tele-communication screen, as if it were commanding all
of their attention and had for them an almost hypnotic fascination.
One of the Martians was Tragor. The other was a shorter, less heavily
muscled ruling-caste individual, stern of eye and lean to the point of
emaciation. His name was Sull.
Tragor seemed to have aged and almost to have shrunken in stature.
There was a smouldering bitterness in his eyes, a look of savage
frustration.
If only her rejection of him could have wavered slightly, he might
have been able to endure her scorn. He had tried in a thousand ways to
please her, had humbled himself, had knelt in desperate appeal at her
feet.
He had beaten on the panel of his sleeping compartment when she had
locked it--and he had given her permission to lock it--until the
bruising of his flesh had become too painful to endure and blood had
dripped from his taloned hands. The back of his right hand was scraped
raw.
Never had a woman been wooed so ardently, with such utter abandonment,
with such a thrusting aside of all pride. Even a woman of ice should
have been stirred to compassion, should have relented a little. Was
there not something in all women which responded to the lovemaking of
the stricken, the hopeless, the lost? Should not her maternal instincts
have been aroused?
They had advanced into the observation compartment now and he was
suddenly aware that Sull was talking to him.
"You must be quite mad to forget in so dangerous a way why we are on
Earth, Tragor. The Plan is about to be tested, an actual experiment is
at the crucial stage, and you let a woman make a complete fool of you."
"I am sorry," Tragor heard himself replying. "I did not intend--"
"You did not intend. You are sorry. What a pitifully weak excuse that
is! We should not have gone searching for women at all at so crucial
an hour. The success of this experiment is vital to us. We may be
needed to silence the man if the experiment is not a success. If you
were not my superior I might be tempted--"
"Do not allow yourself to be tempted, Sull," Tragor heard himself
saying, his bitterness and frustration giving way to rage. "I warn
you. I am in no mood to countenance insubordination. I would be quite
capable of silencing you, in a way that would cause you exquisite
torment."
"I am not afraid of you, Tragor. My lineage is almost as high as your
own. I have a right to speak my mind."
"Speak it then, and let us be done with it. I know where my duty lies.
I have not neglected it in any way."
"You are trembling so I am concerned for your sanity. You are thinking
of that woman and you are thinking of her compulsively and that is bad.
I would never allow a woman to hold the whip hand. They must be made to
obey."
"You have never been in love, Sull. You cannot force a woman to love
you."
"You can force her to respond."
"Sull, there is something about you that I do not like. I refuse to
listen to you. We have come to watch the experiment. Let us watch."
The two Martians approached the tele-communications screen and stood
before it. The man named David Loring was in the room of his beloved
staring about him now, his eyes on the unmade bed and a slipper that
she had dropped in her haste to leave the apartment. He was standing
very still, his image very sharp on the lighted screen.
Tragor turned and glanced for an instant at the view-glass, which
mirrored the shining waters of the lake far below and the launch which
was heading northward.
He stiffened in instant alarm, gripping Sull's arm. "That speedboat!"
he whispered. "Sull, look! Quickly! Can you see it? They've
observed the ship and are turning about. We can't allow that many
eyewitnesses to remain alive when everything is so crucial. It would be
dangerous--the height of folly. We must silence them immediately."
Sull turned and stared in the view-glass, his lean body and the
emaciated lines of his face making him look almost mummylike in the
cold overhead light.
"Three men and three women," he said. "One of the men has a camera."
"It would not be the first time that photographs have been taken of our
ships in daylight," Tragor said quickly. "But we cannot risk it now.
Events are moving too rapidly."
"Yes, it would be a very clear photograph, with identifiable scenery in
the background. The kind of photograph it would be difficult to fake.
It would carry conviction, if backed up with the observations of six
eyewitnesses. I do not like it at all."
"Neither do I. And it is too late to get out of range. They have
started taking pictures and they can see us clearly. I'm afraid we
shall have to destroy the boat."
Tragor turned, strode quickly across the compartment and picked up a
communication tube. He spoke into it, issuing detailed instructions,
pleased by the steady way his voice rose above the faint buzzing
and clicking of the instrument, feeling within him the sureness and
firmness which he always experienced when he knew himself to be in
command....
On the bright waters of the lake the occupants of the launch were no
longer in a merrymaking mood. It had been quite wonderful to be in
such a mood and it had lasted for five hours before the huge, shining
disk had come into view. Both the men and the women had been drinking
heavily and had felt gloriously relaxed and at ease, the way they
had known they would feel on a speedboat excursion with no holds
barred. Even now on the foredeck there was still a sprawl of arms and
nylon-encased legs and a sleepy voice whispering: "I'm not going to get
up, lover. Not even going to get up and look. You hear me, lover? It's
too dee-licious right here. What do I care about an old flying saucer?
You are sending me, lover. Sweetkins, come closer. Closer ... that's
it. Never mind that silly old flying saucer. We can do our own flying
right here."
All of the others had gotten up, however and were staring up at the
sky. One of the women was very tall, but otherwise no fault could have
been found with her from a man's point of view. She was wearing only
a halter and a transparent, black gauze brassiere which was having no
success at all in concealing her rose-tipped, sharply pointed breasts.
Her legs were long and so beautifully shaped that they could very
easily have persuaded a man at the wheel of a speedboat to ignore the
safety of his companions in a dangerous gale. The whiteness of her body
where it wasn't sun-tanned was a specialty of the house, and her face
went with the menu like the rarest of Parisian wines.
The man who stood at her side had tossed the menu aside for a moment,
apparently. He was almost as tall as she was, with curly blond hair and
a rugged, outdoorsman aspect. He was wearing a gray tweed sports jacket
and a stubby pipe was clamped between his teeth, the smoke drifting out
over the water.
The woman sprawled on the foredeck, who still did not seem in the least
interested in the saucer, was a redhead, and she also wore a halter.
But her companion, who had a Latin profile and hair so black that it
could have been mistaken for the wings of a crow, was doing his best to
conceal most of her charms. The third woman was a short, almost dumpy
brunette, but there was something attractive about her.
The man with the camera was heavy-set and ruddy-faced and attired in a
bathing suit. He seemed the most excited member of the party.
"And I thought people who took UFO's seriously were whacks!" he
shouted. "Good Lord! Look at it. Just look at it. It's an Unidentified
Flying Object, all right, but when I get it on film the lads in
Washington will drop the 'Unidentified'. It's from somewhere in space.
Mars, Venus! Who knows? Big--oh, my God!"
"You've got a good camera there," the man in the tweed sports jacket
said, removing the pipe from his mouth and speaking very calmly. "A
Leica, isn't it?"
"Sure it's a good camera. The best. But why in hell does that interest
you now? A kid's box camera would do the job just as well. You're a
funny guy, Jim. Does nothing excite you?"
For reply the tweedy man glanced significantly at his tall companion,
his eyes lingering for an instant on the black gauze brassiere, and
then passing downward to her shapely legs.
"Blondes, brunettes and redheads," he said, rather tritely.
"Oh, come off it. No guy could see a flying saucer--actually see one at
close range--and not bust his seams with awe. Yeah, that's what I said.
_Awe._ A fancy word, but I'm not ashamed to use it. Boy! Brother! It's
so big it fills half the sky."
"I see what you mean," the tweedy man said. "But I never allow myself
to get too excited. It doesn't pay."
"Do you have to take photographs?" the tall girl said. "It makes me
terribly nervous. Suppose they don't want to be photographed?"
"I thought of that. But it's the chance of a lifetime. I'm not passing
it up."
"Oh, lover!" came from the foredeck. "Oh, darling, sweet, I never
imagined--don't stop now."
"Oh, Gawd!" the tall girl said. "Do we have to put up with that?"
"It's a crazy world," the tweedy man said. "That's why I'm such a
skeptic. A flying saucer? Maybe. But I'm not convinced by any means.
It could be a Naval Observatory plane, some new fancy kind that's
disk-shaped and very large. Or maybe the Russians have come up with a
low-flying satellite. Anything is possible. I'll admit that if I was
convinced I would get excited."
"I'm frightened," the short brunette said. "I'm so scared I can't think
straight."
"I guess we all are," the tweedy man admitted. "I take back what I
said. I guess we all are. But if we just sit tight it will be gone in
two or three minutes."
"I've got thirty-two exposures on this roll," the man with the camera
said. "I'll get it from every angle. There won't be any argument about
it this time. They'll be banner headlines and every paper in the
country will give the pictures a front-page spread. I'll be in _Life_.
Both the pictures and the guy who took them. The best kind of publicity
for a writer. He made it on the flying-saucer circuit."
"I agree with Ellen," the tweedy man said. "I don't think you should be
taking pictures. And it's not really a joking matter."
"I'm not joking. Believe me, I'm not. I'm just being a little
light-headed. Can you blame me for that? You get keyed up and you think
of the craziest things. Like in the poem. Two lines. 'His life was
scarlet but his books were read.' To a writer that's important. Just to
be read. Starting tomorrow, I'll have fifty million readers."
"You're over stimulated," the tall girl said. "Calm down. The right
place for over stimulation is where it can be appreciated. There's a
time and place for everything, Freddy boy, as you should know. If that
flying saucer was a woman, I bet you wouldn't be half as excited."
"That's where you're wrong. But if flying saucers really exist, do
you realize what that means? The whole universe could cave in on us.
Anything is possible, as Jim said. Only he was thinking of Russian
satellites. I'm thinking visitors from space who may bear us no love,
who may want to see the whole planet go _pouf_."
On the gleaming waters of the lake four frightened people and two who
were too preoccupied to be frightened, lived out the last five minutes
of their lives with the unique individuality which sets every man born
into the world apart from all other men, every woman apart from all
other women.
They were no different from a million other people as people go:
thoughtful, whimsical, light-hearted, unselfish and self-seeking,
generous and tight-fisted, courageous and cowardly, aggressive and
self-effacing as changing circumstances dictated. Each was a world in
himself or herself--each a universe, a spiral nebula.
And in a blazing split second of time six universes were blotted out.
It happened so quickly there was no pain, no shock even. From the hull
of the Martian mother ship a shaft of blinding incandescence lanced
down, white, flaring, terrible. A dull concussion shook the bed of the
lake, ran in earthquake-like waves to both shorelines, toppled a few
trees, and traveled on with an electrically generated surcharge to the
brushwood-covered summits of adjacent hills and set the brush aflame.
Where the shaft struck the water geysered. Elsewhere it was churned
into whitecaps and miniature whirlpools. A dozen gigantic catfish
were killed instantly and rose slowly to the surface to float,
white-bellied, near the shore.
When the incandescence vanished, both the boat and its occupants were
gone.
"Let us hope we encounter no more men with cameras before we have made
certain that the Plan will succeed." Tragor said.
He had returned to the tele-communication screen and was standing at
Sull's side, watching the image of the man who, more than any other
member of his race, had become the trigger mechanism that would make or
break the Plan....
David Loring had not turned, but now the door was slowly opening behind
him and someone was coming into the room. On the bright and flickering
screen Loring's image seemed a little larger than life size, the planes
of his face a little sharper than when he had first stepped into
the room. Even his shadow on the floor seemed to lengthen as Tragor
stared, and Tragor found himself wondering--the thought, of course,
was absurd--if that shadow might not continue to lengthen, slowly and
relentlessly, until it filled the world and brought the Martian Plan
crashing down in ruin.
Had they taken too great a risk? Was it not highly dangerous to use
a man as a guinea pig? No, no--not a guinea pig. Only Earthmen used
guinea pigs in laboratory experiments. Had he lived too long on Earth,
two years that seemed like a lifetime. It was outrageous the way Earth
terms sprang naturally to his lips, both outrageous and disturbing. He
must try not to think in such terms. Loring was a guinea pig only in
the sense that he could be destroyed if he failed. But Martians did not
really use men as guinea pigs. They used them as pawns.