A change in command on any level, on any world, must have instant
repercussions. Morale will sag or soar. New faces will appear and grow
authoritative and forbidding and old faces will dim and vanish. When
the change is limited in scope, only small thrones totter. When it is
planet-wide a new world of power comes into existence.
On Mars, the death of the Chief Coordinator produced a social,
political, economic and military earthquake; or what, on Mars, was the
equivalent of an earthquake. The Martian social structure was shaken to
its foundations. Political power became a plum ripe for the plucking. A
dozen taloned hands reached for it, but the hands of Sull were the most
adroit and experienced.
Sull grasped the plum and began steadily to squeeze it, until it began
to remold itself to his satisfaction. But it was not a remolding
which could take place overnight, and while power was changing hands,
demoralization gained a momentary ascendancy.
On Mars there was famine, pestilence and widespread vandalism. There
was a wavering, an uncertainty, in Martian military planning. Orders
were delayed or garbled, and the commanders of the Martian ships did
not quite know what course of action to follow or how much leeway
between the golden heights of a soaring prestige and the deadly shoals
of treason.
That uncertainty generated a need for solidarity in action, and the
Martian commanders, though wary and suspicious of one another, were
drawn more closely together in their hatred of the common enemy. They
became defiantly reckless, and for the first time Martian ships took to
traveling openly in mass formation, in a display of armored strength
which they foolishly imagined might bring Earth to its knees.
While Loring and Janice stood alone on Mars, in a small room with one
window, under constant guard and completely at Sull's mercy, five
Martian ships moved westward across the Eastern United States, and
began deliberately to court--Armageddon.
Colonel Richard Clegman of the United States Air Force awoke from a
dream of coffee cups set in a row, each cup steaming and unstirred, and
blinked sleep from his eyelids. In his dream it hadn't been just the
coffee cups which had upset him with their tantalizing aroma, which
seemed to hover just beyond the less appetizing aromas of drifting
smoke, vaporized rocket fuels and burning rubber. He had been annoyed
by the barking of a dog just outside the high wire fence where four
Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles stood on their launching platforms
with their nose-cones pointing skyward, their silvery tail-fins
resplendent against the dawn sky.
Dogs at a guided missile and bombing plane base were an anomaly he
strongly resented, but could do nothing about. Air Force personnel in
general were not in the least allergic to mascots and dogs and cats
were mascots, of a sort. But so were pin-up blondes, and as Clegman did
not have the kind of mind which might have permitted him, under certain
circumstances, to confuse the two, they remained forever distinct and
poles apart in his thoughts.
A blonde pin-up met with his full approval, and he even carried one
himself, in a small gold locket beneath his meticulously laundered
officer's shirt. Only--he would not have cared to admit to anyone that
the girl in the photograph was his wife. To do so would have been a
betrayal, because it was important that the members of his command
should think of him as a devil of a fellow who could trade Rabelaisian
jests with the salty freedom which can come only from a wide range of
experience in all fields of human warfare, not excluding the amorous.
That sort of thing made for tough-fibered camaraderie in action,
as every experienced soldier knew. In fact, Clegman was quite sure
that even John Paul Jones and Lord Nelson had played down the fact
that they'd been one-woman men to keep shipboard morale on a gusty,
universally shared "I've a big-eyed doll in Tokyo" level.
He had only to think about it for a moment for Korean War memories to
come roaring back, with the deck of the Flat Top awash in the dawn and
the big bombing planes warming up. Not as big as the jets of today but
big enough.
"If I live through this one, Commander, I won't just phone Maizie.
It's six dolls for me, if I have to burn up the wires and run into
debt getting them on long distance and paying their fares on a Borling
Special. How about you, Commander? I'll bet you've got a dozen cuties
from Miami to Tahiti you're keeping mum about. I don't blame you--with
brunettes at a premium and blondes and redheads so scarce you've got to
dazzle them with at least seven wound stripes. How about it Commander?
I'm sort of curious."
"That's my business."
"Oh, sure, sure. You could get sore and pull rank on me. But you
won't. You're too human a guy. Why don't we form a pool and trade a
few phone numbers? We could make it a party to end all parties. A real
bang-up night. This time tomorrow we may be pushing up daisies--or sea
anemones. How do the jokers put it? The daisies hammer you home. And
when you're in a pine box, Commander, you'll sure as hell wish you
hadn't let a single day go by."
"You're right about that, Lieutenant," Clegman could hear himself
replying, even though it wasn't strictly true in his case. "I can't
complain exactly. But there was a girl in Paris--well, if I'd dated her
properly I might have been less worried than I am right now about being
blown apart."
"Real curves, eh, Commander?"
"Real curves. And not just curves alone. There was a sultry-eyed
something about her--"
"Commander, how many dames do you figure there are in the world? Ever
stop to count them? I've been too busy myself to add up the sum total
of the really special ones I've just missed meeting."
"I know what you're trying to say. There'll be plenty of choices ahead
for both of us if we're lucky enough to be alive this time tomorrow.
You don't have to draw me a diagram. I've been thinking along the same
lines."
It hadn't been true, of course. There was such a thing as loyalty, and
when you've met the one and only girl and married her at an early age
it kept your far-roaming Casanova impulses from making you even want
to talk like that. But you had no right to think only of yourself. A
sternly straight-laced Commander could weaken the fighting strength of
even a big Flat Top, with twenty planes serving for the moment as a
kind of woman-substitute.
Clegman wasn't Puritanic, of course. In fact, he was the exact opposite
of a blue-nosed kill-joy.... But you didn't need a hundred blondes if
there was just one you thought of night and day. People could laugh if
they wished, but he considered himself a very lucky guy.
He had then, and he still did, because he'd been married for fourteen
years to the same blonde, and every time he met her she seemed like a
new woman to him, because she was always making adorable little changes
in herself.
Only, for the sake of keeping up morale, it was something he couldn't
let the members of his command suspect. The full truth would have made
them feel like outcasts, standing before the locked gates of paradise.
So he kept the locket well concealed, and only took it out to whisper,
"My darling," thirty or forty times a day.
If someone had asked him he would have lied without hesitation and
insisted that it was a picture of Jayne Mansfield.
He was awake now, fully awake and not even the cups of black coffee
he'd dreamt about could make more supportable the harsh realities of
his command, or keep them at arm's length any longer. Besides, he had
merely sniffed the coffee without tasting it and all of the cups had
been whisked away out of sight by a dozen agile-fingered memories.
Agile-fingered at first and then iron-fisted, and dominated by a pair
of silver eagles.
The eagles were on the shoulders of his uniform, which was draped
across a chair on the opposite side of the room. He found himself
wishing that the eagles were maple leaves or, better still, the silver
bars of a lieutenant. Hell--why stop there? A private's uniform would
have suited him fine.
He luxuriated in the thought for a moment, thinking of how nice it
would be to hop in a jeep and go calling on his wife, not caring if he
was docked a month's pay and given eight days in the guardhouse. If
only he could forget for an hour that the I B M's were Top Secret and
had to be zealously guarded by high-ranking officers every hour of the
day and night.
Well, he couldn't and that was that. He had eagles to remind him that
his duty was an awesome one and that he ought to feel proud. Probably
he did, but when you started thinking in terms of tomorrow you felt
humble and unimportant. Target Moon, Target Mars, Interplanetary Guided
Missiles. Not yet, but soon. And if one of them exploded on takeoff
it would tear out your guts, because you'd know exactly what the big
babies cost.
You couldn't build them overnight.
In addition to the I B M's, there were eight land-based bombers groomed
for instant takeoff just south of the missile launching area and the
entire base was under the command of a two-star general who did his
best to be everywhere at once, but couldn't quite manage it.
Clegman often found himself wondering if the general wouldn't have
preferred the less complicated duties of a master sergeant if it
wouldn't have meant giving up such a massive kind of prestige. A
colonel could demote himself in his mind without undergoing quite
such an emotional wrench, but it was probably too much to expect of a
general. He'd have to suffer in silence and delegate as much authority
as he safely could to Clegman, who had earned his eagles the hard way,
on a twice almost bombed-out Flat Top.
Clegman had to admit that almost everyone in the Air Force had earned
his insignia the hard way, whether West Pointers or not. He supposed
that went for the other branches of the Service as well but the Air
Force was an island universe in itself, and he was well content not to
look beyond it.
He wouldn't have too much minded being a two-star general but the
private idea appealed to him more. Privates had no major headaches
at all until they stepped out of line, which they were certain to do
sooner or later.
But the penalties for minor infractions were seldom severe and privates
had more freedom of movement on a guided missile base than any officer
from a captain on up. His, Clegman's, own day was restricted from dawn
to dusk, for in ways that were mysterious the I B M's had taken over
command. They were like big-eyed owls awake all night in a whispering
forest, and still awake in the daytime.
If you were not careful, an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile could
lean on you. I B M's seemed to know exactly how to lean and seemed
always to be whispering: "We're powerful preventives, chum. You created
us and now we have a life of our own. If you don't treat us with
respect--awe, even--we may decide to blow up the world!"
Basically it was absurd, perhaps, to think of the I B M's as alive. But
were not all the weapons of men a little like fertile ghosts that could
walk the world at will, and give birth continuously to offspring more
deadly and specialized than themselves?
Had not the rude stone flints of Dawn Man given birth to bows and
arrows and arrows to steel-edged weapons? And did not a good many
African tribesmen today still think of weapons as the opposite of
inanimate?
All forms of animism were primitive perhaps, but just how primitive
was the nuclear fission bomb giving birth to the hydrogen bomb? All
right--it was only the belief itself which was primitive and the modern
world took a dim view of Dawn Age Man's animism. But dim or not, the
view could still be frightening.
Clegman was startled out of his somber revery by a shout from outside
the Administration Barracks. When a missile is traveling at the speed
of sound its sides pick up all kinds of echoes, subsonic, sonic and
supersonic. The shout sounded like that, the human voice distorted,
shrill with excitement and then dwindling to just below the threshold
of ear-perceptible sound and yet remaining somehow chillingly audible.
The same instant there was a buzzing at Clegman's elbow. He leapt up
and clicked on the intercom. A voice said inflexibly: "I've just sent
out an emergency alert, sir! Didn't dare wait to contact you. You might
not have believed it and a delay of even half a minute--"
"Fraser! What the hell are you talking about? Are you drunk, Captain?"
Clegman almost shouted the words, an angry flush creeping up over his
cheekbones.
"I was never more sober," the voice said, with unruffled firmness. "Go
to the window and look out. The south end of the missile area. You can
see them from the barracks now, I think. A moment ago I might have had
to talk you into going outside and we'd have wasted precious seconds.
I'll take all responsibility for the alert, Colonel."
"You certainly will!" Clegman shouted, his shoulders shaking a little
as he clicked off the intercom. "Remember that at the court martial!"
He crossed to the window in four long strides and looked out.
"Oh, Lord!" he breathed.
He had always been a doubter. The Air Force had insisted, as it had
every right to do on the basis of available evidence, that flying
saucers could be given no support at all in official quarters. It had
never stated categorically that the numerous reported sightings could
be all explained away in easy and facile fashion, but it had maintained
a sound, sane and entirely justifiable attitude in regard to them. That
attitude was everlastingly to the Air Force's credit. Even now Clegman
could find no fault with it. It was just that--here at last was the
evidence!
They were coming in over the southern tip of the missile area, still a
half mile or more from the base and flying at a very low altitude. Five
immense silvery disks, their edges glinting in the dawn light, their
summits slightly turreted.
Later, Clegman was never quite able to decide just what convinced
him that the five U F O's had no intention of passing over the base
without launching an attack upon it. But something did--a warning
signal deep in his mind, a premonition that he had no right to delay
a counter-decision for another half minute. In the absence of the
General--just where the General might be he did not even stop to ask
himself--it was up to him.
The invading U F O's were committing an act of armed aggression
by flying over an I B M base whether they knew it or not. And
both consciously and unconsciously--deep in his mind--Clegman was
overwhelmingly convinced that they did know it. It was a very big
country. An I B M base was a mere pinpoint on the map and the presence
of Unidentified Flying Objects in the sky above it could not possibly
have been coincidental.
The long arm of coincidence could never stretch that far--not in a
million years or anywhere in space or time.
It was up to Colonel Richard Clegman, who had earned his insignia the
hard way on a smoke-blackened Flat Top. Being a man of strength and a
man of decision, Clegman acted without hesitation and with no feeling
of guilt. He gave the signal for the launching of an all-out guided
missile and jet bomber attack.
Corporal Thomas Walton would always think of it as a day to remember.
But if anyone had told him that he would occupy a full page in the
elementary-school history books of the late twentieth century he would
have refused to believe it, for he was an extraordinarily modest young
man.
There can be no doubt, however, that a full page was no more than his
due. Circumstances alone can create a legend, a hero-image, and when a
man risks his life in a hazardous undertaking it is not too important
that he is merely carrying out orders and performing a duty which he
might, with complete freedom of choice, prefer to avoid.
Corporal Thomas Walton was the first United States soldier to see a
Martian face to face.
The Martian ship was a smoking, half-telescoped mass of wreckage and
how a living Martian could have survived deep in the hull, in the midst
of what must have been a raging inferno, was not an easy enigma for the
scientists to unravel or the newspaper-reading public to grasp. The
TV-viewing public would have liked very much to see that particular
Martian but he died soon afterwards and was never televised. There were
eight hundred Martian captives to question, and TV coverage remained so
over-burdened for days that viewers did not feel any pronounced sense
of outrage until it was too late to rectify an official blunder that
was tragic from a documentary point of view.
Fortunately Corporal Walton did see that first remarkable survivor--saw
him close and saw him plain. He had been advancing cautiously toward
the wreckage with a Geiger counter which was not clicking and a
protective helmet which he had just started to take off. Neither the
Geiger counter nor the helmet were of any particular value to him, for
the wreckage was not radio-active and never had been.
The Martian ships had been attacked by both guided missiles and
swooping jets. Three successive bombing attacks had been launched
against them. But the small, intermediate-range ballistic missiles had
not carried atomic warheads and neither had the jets. The towering,
silver-finned I B M's had remained on their launching pads, their
destructive potential quiescent and unchallenged. It had been a World
War II-type bombing attack, but so sudden, fierce and unrelenting that
two of the Martian ships had gone down in flames and another had been
forced to land and disgorge its entire crew. The two remaining ships
had flown lopsidedly westward, trailing clouds of smoke, too crippled
to retaliate with more than a single blast of searing fire. The blast
had struck far west of the missile base, blackening two acres of
woodland, but missing the base completely.
A slender jet had gone in pursuit of the fleeing disks, and that one
jet had been armed in a more formidable way--with a small, gray-nosed
atomic projectile. The fleeing disks had not returned.
Corporal Walton was remembering all this as he drew near to the
wreckage of the only ship which was still smouldering after five hours
of exposure to fire-extinguishing vapor showers from two circling
planes.
Precaution demanded that he follow decontamination unit procedures even
if the Geiger failed to click, for there was always the danger that
there might be unknown and hitherto unsuspected forms of radiant energy
in proximity to an U F O which would not register on a G-Muller counter.
But Corporal Walton liked to think that he could determine such things
for himself and had suddenly decided to lift his helmet to get a better
view of the smoke-enveloped ship.
He did so, standing very still, letting the immense weight of Army
discipline and tradition wash over him for an instant like a tidal
wave, appalled by his own audacity in defying it and more than a little
frightened.
He was taking a dreadful risk and he knew it. There _could_ be unknown
forms of radiant energy that might seep into his bones and remain
undetected for years, a slow but deadly radio-active blight which would
kill him before he was forty. He wanted to live to be ninety, but he
wouldn't have a chance if he went on taking risks like this.
He saw the Martian before the Martian saw him. He saw the hideous,
masklike face, smoke-blackened, and the talons that were creeping
toward him in a blind fumbling that might have moved him to pity if he
had not been too terrified to do anything but recoil backwards with a
scream.
The Martian shuddered convulsively, as if a human scream at such a
moment was more than he could endure. Perhaps he had heard too many
human screams. Perhaps he did not want to hear any more or perhaps
it was just pain which caused him to shut his eyes quickly and just
as quickly open them again and fasten them on the youth standing
white-lipped and trembling before him.
"I did not want to come to Earth," the Martian said. "I am too young
to die. I knew this would happen. We are cruel--and we are merciless.
But I was never quite like that. There are a few of us who are not like
that."
The Martian was silent for an instant and then he whispered: "It is
your world again. We took some of it from you, and we would have taken
it all. But the Plan is shattered forever now. We give back what we
have taken. It is completely your world again."