He spoke in a loud, deep voice, "This is no gag, ladies and gentlemen.
This man on the stage is the most dangerous and cold-blooded murderer
in America. He is the murderer of Lydia Davis and Genevieve Scott."
Several other men stood up. They all had masses of metal under their
left arm pits. The heavy man gave them an order. "Go up on the stage
and handcuff him. Use five pairs of handcuffs."
Then he spoke to the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, today we
substituted tempered steel bars for the reinforcing bars. Twenty
ordinary men couldn't have bent one of those bars. What you have
witnessed was no trick. The man you see on the stage is not like us.
He has the strength of at least forty men. Please remain in your
seats. We can handle this situation."
The audience gasped and murmured. A woman screamed.
The group of men started walking towards the stage. My hands were up.
I cupped my right one and gave the heavy man a full charge of heat.
His hair went up in a bright orange flame. He dropped the red hot gun
from his smoking hand, and fell to the floor. He frantically rolled
around the aisle trying to put out his flaming clothes.
One of the other men shot at me. The little piece of lead came toward
me, flew over my shoulder. It was going at about 900 feet per second.
This was enough to kill me, Excellency. I became panic-stricken. I
fled into the wings. I was followed by a storm of little whistling
lead pellets.
The stagehands scattered hysterically before me as I ran down the
steps and out the stage door entrance. The street in front of the
theatre was packed with police cruisers and athletic-looking men in
blue uniforms.
* * * * *
Before anyone saw me, I cupped my hand, and fired the gas tank of the
nearest police cruiser. The ray of the male principle went out with
the heat ray. As I ran by the flaming car, all of the women in the
street felt something important. They all turned and looked at me.
Policemen started shooting. They piled out of their cars. The street
was echoing with yells and shouts. I was terrified. I exerted an
enormous effort of will and mustered every atom of energy at my
command. I sent a full-power heat blast up the street. I have never
marshalled a bigger blast, even in the contests at our training school
in Area Twelve.
Fifteen automobiles burst into flames. Twenty or thirty men and women
fell screaming to the sidewalk, their clothes burning. A flock of
roasted pigeons fell smoking out of the sky. A black cloud condensed
over the street, and a forked tongue of lightning flashed from it.
Every woman within a quarter of a mile felt the hot electrical force
of the male principle. I dived into the Times Square subway entrance
and sprinted down the stairs. There was a men's washroom at the end of
the platform.
I heard the wild tumult of pursuit behind me. I pushed open the door.
A man was there washing his hands. I strangled him, tore off his
clothes, and put them on myself. Hastily, I twisted my face about so
that I looked like an entirely different person. I opened the door and
started walking slowly back down the platform.
A platoon of policemen with drawn guns was sprinting down the platform
towards me. They were followed by a yelling mob of civilians which
included hundreds of women. They swept by me. I was safe, but
shivering with fear, Excellency. I was spent. I couldn't have mustered
up a heat ray strong enough to warm the end of my nose.
I stumbled around the corner and away from that neighborhood. Then I
went into the first restaurant I saw, and gorged. After a five dollar
plank steak, three glasses of milk, one glass of beer, and apple pie a
la mode I was still ravenous; still energy-minus.
I went a block up the street, into another restaurant, and bolted down
exactly the same meal again. Strength started to flow slowly through
my veins. After one more meal in still another restaurant, my
confidence returned.
The newspapers handled the affair with amazing restraint. The facts
brought in by their reporters naturally sounded fantastic to the
editors, so they rearranged them to "make sense." The reticence of the
authorities, particularly the F.B.I., helped to convert what might
have caused a national panic into just an unusually spectacular chase
after an escaped murderer. The burning cars were laid to hooliganism
on the part of the bystanders. The people who got burned, so the
stories explained, were hurt by the gasoline explosions of the burning
cars. The mass hysteria of the women was caused by the excitement. The
papers said that the steel necktie worn by my stooge at the theatre
had to be cut off by a water-cooled electric saw. They said that
however I did it, it was a clever trick.
The next few days, Your Excellency, were the most difficult of my stay
here. I knew that the full power of not only the F.B.I., but of the
whole national government, would be concentrated to destroy me. I had
to hide--hide, and get a new start.
The money in the pockets of my borrowed suit didn't last long. I
couldn't possibly risk presenting myself as a strong man or a
magician again. I became a ditch digger and a day laborer, and finally
drifted into the professional wrestling racket. Many of the top
wrestling promoters live in Washington, D. C. I rented a little white
clapboard house with green shutters, out in the country beyond Silver
Springs, Maryland.
* * * * *
I was careful to keep myself a second-rate wrestler. This was
exasperating, Your Excellency. At any time I could have beaten three
or four of their best wrestlers simultaneously. Everything was fixed
so I won and lost when they told me to. We even practiced how we were
going to win or lose before each match. I was very obedient and very
scared.
I did everything _not_ to attract attention. I started to use the male
principle again, but so sparingly that everything looked natural.
I tried to fit into the life of the community and become an American.
I joined a Bowling League. I learned to play a game called "Canasta."
I got to be great friends with a man named Nat Brown, an automobile
mechanic. He lived with his extraordinarily beautiful wife, Helene, in
a house about a half mile away.
The Browns used to ask me to dinner, and I would meet their friends. I
grew very fond of them. We would sit around and drink beer and play
cards and talk until late at night about politics and philosophy and
love and everything else on earth. It was by far the swiftest part of
my education in America, living with these lighthearted, charming
people who obviously liked me.
The only disadvantage was the problem raised by my increasing fondness
for Helene Brown. She was a vivid incarnation of the female principle,
and yet I knew I must not touch her. I had a constant battle with
myself to maintain the disinterested relationship necessary to
continuing with these people without complication.
Both Nat and Helene Brown used to come to see me wrestle whenever I
had a match in Washington. Whether I won or lost we would go out and
drink beer together. I would sometimes bring another girl along. More
and more I started to feel like a real native American. A couple of
close friends, Excellency, did a lot for your humble servant.
Three days ago I was riding along Connecticut Avenue in my new car.
When I stopped for a light, I saw a familiar face in the crowd
crossing the street. It was the tall heavy man, the F.B.I. agent who
had tracked me down and tried to capture me in the theatre the night
of the big battle. I could sense the mass of metal carried under his
left arm.
He was hurrying along with another man. When I saw who it was my blood
froze in my veins. It was my neighbor, Nat Brown. He also had a mass
of metal under his left arm.
It was clear to me then that, in spite of my precautions, the F.B.I.
had spotted me weeks ago. How, I do not know. Nat Brown was their
surveillance agent.
I drove home immediately to finish this letter and get it off to you.
I may not be alive tomorrow. The launching apparatus is concealed in a
tool shed about a half a mile behind the house. I am going to put down
my recommendations and get this off immediately--before it's too late.
* * * * *
As I see it, Excellency, there are only four courses available to us:
(1) A chemical or other isolation of the female principle,
followed by an attempt to synthesize it at home to see what
its effect would be on our women. This might save us.
Unfortunately I have yet been unable to isolate what causes
the female principle here; so this is not a possibility yet.
(2) Kidnap some of their women. This would be delightful fun
for Your Excellency and a few others; but it would not solve
the main problem. Transportation difficulties would make it
impossible to get enough of them. Also, if the basic element
which creates the "female principle" is lacking because of
some soil or other deficiency at home, their women would
soon become like ours. All of our trouble would go for
nothing, and our doom would continue to approach.
(3) Conquer them, kill the men, take their women, and live
with the women here. This, in my opinion, should not be
attempted for the following reasons. Americans are
extraordinarily efficient in warfare. They have atomic and
hydrogen weapons, and they know how to use them. They are
very warlike, although they constantly deny it. Some of
their other weapons are fully equal to ours, in some
respects, superior. Our communications would be far too long
to enable us to prevail. This should be attempted only if
the fourth alternative fails; and even then only after long
expensive preparation. Also, there is distinct danger if we
disclose ourselves by attacking them. They may find a way to
attack us, and cause considerable damage. As things are now,
with our vanishing birth rate, we can't afford to lose
people in a war.
(4) The fourth alternative is to breed their race out of
existence by planting our blood here--in other words, an
invasion from within. This will depend upon our two races
being inter-fertile. I am almost certain that they are. If I
can stay alive for seven months longer I will give you a
definite report. I will carry on the experiment as swiftly
as possible.
Since these people have such a short life span our descendants will
live hundreds of years longer than theirs. The present race will
slowly be bred out due to the infirmities of its men. Our men and
their women will create a race superior to both.
If I can find a way to escape from the F.B.I., and establish myself
once more in safety I will try to justify Your Excellency's confidence
in your humble servant.
* * * * *
I put the letter down on my desk. It certainly told most of the story.
It needed only a final paragraph. Then I sat down at the typewriter
and added it:
I am closing now, Your Excellency. Tomorrow will be the transmission
date for this letter. I may not communicate with you again for some
time, but please understand, Excellency, that I am your humble and
devoted servant and have tried to carry on in strict accordance with
your wishes.
I put the letter into an envelope and put it in my pocket. Then I got
into my car and drove down through the city to the northwest wing of
the Department of Justice Building. The elevator girl smiled. "Haven't
seen you for a long time, Nat. Don't you work for the F.B.I. any
more?"
I smiled back at her, "The Chief has had me up to a lot of out-of-town
devilment."
I passed Jack and Tex in the hall, and we waved to each other. They
wanted to talk, but I was in too much of a hurry. "The Chief wants
me," I said, without slowing down.
When I reached the Chief's office Mrs. Sperling gave me a broad grin.
"Hello, Nat. The Chief's been waiting for you."
I went down the little corridor into the Chief's room. He was sitting
at his desk looking grim and tense. On the wall behind him was a huge
map of the United States. It had clumps of vari-colored pins all over
it. His deep voice boomed across the room.
"Hello, Nat. How is the Chief of the Venusian Desk?"
"Well, if you want to know the truth, Chief, I'm pretty god damned
relieved. Some jobs are fun. But my hair has been standing on end so
much since you gave me this job that it's going to need about a
year's rest. No man wants his hair to have a nervous breakdown."
The Chief looked at me fondly. "Well, I can't say you carried your
mission out quietly. It practically blew me out of bed, and I live at
least ten miles away."
"Joe did a hell of a good job with the TNT," I said. "How the hell he
ever got twenty tons of it down in the basement in three hours I'll
never find out."
A slight frown came over the Chief's face. "Are you sure our Venusian
friend was there?"
"Absolutely."
"How--absolutely?"
"I called him on the telephone. When he answered I pressed the button.
I heard the explosion over the wire, half a second before it
practically tore down my own house. When I got over there a big crowd
was collecting." I took a deep breath. "Not much for them to look at,
though--just a big black smoking hole in the ground."
"And our inter-planetary friend?"
"Well, I don't know about his soul, Chief, but his body isn't around
anywhere. I guess it just turned into steam with the rest of the
house. A lot of women are going to be sad as hell."
I saw the Chief's fists clenched on the desk. He was still taut from
the strain of the last few hours. Finally he reached for the silver
cigarette box on his desk. His fingers jerked crazily as he put a
cigarette in his mouth. He passed the box to me. I took one and
started fumbling in my pockets for a match. The Chief snapped open the
top of his big desk lighter, and held it over to me. I put the
cigarette into the flame and drew deeply. The flame was at least three
inches high. The Chief leaned forward, his eyes riveted on me. There
was a queer, expectant look on his face. I stared back at him,
puzzled. Finally he snapped the lighter shut, and turned to the wall.
"It's all right, boys," he said.
* * * * *
A door with grille-work along the front opened up. I saw Joe Evans and
Tom Hardy and Jim Reid standing there with tommy guns, pointed right
at my head.
The Chief laughed at my expression of bewilderment.
"I wasn't taking any chances, Nat. You can't afford to in a situation
like this. No matter how sure you are, you can't gamble the whole
future of your own world. I wanted to be damned certain that you
really were Nat Brown, and not His Excellency's humble servant from
the planet Venus. If you had flinched so much as one eyelash, Nat,
when I held that lighter up to your face, three tommy guns would have
opened up on you--all at one and the same time."