[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1953
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Let them in, sergeant." The white-haired New United Nations World
Space Force chief spoke the words as though he had been forced into
the most humiliating surrender in history. And he had been.
What could he tell them? They were not fools, after all, and he was so
impossibly exhausted.... Uniform was a mess. All day and all night,
words, words, ... and nothing. Too many useless, powerless words,
all adding up to nothing. Foreign space admirals, ground-force field
marshals, defense secretaries from a dozen capitals.
Where were the ion-field cannon that had been promised for the last
twenty years? Where were the new main-drives? The new alloys? Promises,
always promises--but where in God's name _were_ they?
And now--now it didn't matter any more.
He let his massive frame slump tiredly for a moment, elbows flattening
some of the official litter strewn across the broad desk-top, head in
his big hands.
"General Taylor, sir--"
He forced the thoughts from his brain with almost the same physical
force with which he shoved his tired body erect.
"Yes, yes, thank you, sergeant. Good morning, gentlemen. Sorry to have
kept you waiting."
There were perhaps thirty of them, all civilians, all crowding for a
spot nearest the huge desk, all with stub pencils and sheafs of rumpled
newsprint in their hands. A couple of flash-bulbs went off.
"General, can you tell us what the aliens' intentions are?"
And it had begun.
"I'm authorized to tell you that the alien space ship is hostile. But,
under the circumstances we are convinced with reasonable certainty that
their hostility may be ... mollified to an appreciable degree."
He watched them as they got the official double-talk down word for
word. And then, "In other words, General--we are counter-attacking?"
"Sorry. That information is classified."
"About how high is the alien, sir?"
"He is circling Earth in an orbit about two thousand miles out, passing
our own stations about once every forty-eight hours."
"How big is the ship, sir? About what shape?"
"It is a cigar-shaped vessel, approximately three miles in length and
slightly under one at maximum diameter."
"Have any of our own ships as yet had actual contact with this craft?"
"Yes, there has been contact. I am sorry that for the time being the
result cannot be disclosed."
"There are rumors, General, that the 402nd Space Wing sent a five or
six-ship element of J-83 Lancers from Lunar Base, and that the ships
have not reported back. Is this true, sir?"
"It is true that they have not been heard from since they left."
Then a young, unquavering voice cut in softly. "When is it to begin,
sir? And when will we--"
"You may--write, gentlemen, that the invasion of Earth has already
begun. And, that we have absolutely no defense against it. None.
Because of that fact, the decision of the New U. N. Joint Chiefs has
been that there should be no needless loss of life. You may write that
we have--that we have already surrendered."
His face felt as though it were hewn from wood--a strange wood with a
fever in it. He had spoken far beyond his authorization. But they had
to know. They could not be lied to forever. And the lies had always,
ultimately, been worthless things. He was so _tired_.
"General, can you tell us _why_?"
The group was white-faced, still. The flash-bulbs had stopped popping.
The first impulse to bolt the General's office for the nearest bank of
press telephones had somehow died even as it had arisen. Belief and
disbelief mingled as one in the eyes of each.
"I'll try gentlemen," Taylor said wearily, leaning across the desk,
his knuckles white against the smooth surface. "I could talk about our
stressing of cultural advancement in this 21st century, rather than
technological ... a trend that has always made us of the military
fearful of the future--now at hand--but what's the use of rehashing
problems of the past.... Plainly and simply, gentlemen, the Invader is
superior to us in every phase of known warfare. Add to that the element
of a surprise attack and you find us as we are at this moment--beaten,
irreparably."
No one said anything. There was nothing to say.
General Taylor sank into his chair and stared at them, a grim
hopelessness in his eyes.
Then the newsmen walked from the room. Slowly and silently.
* * * * *
Robert Manning, civilian Pentagon clerk, told himself that the Invaders
might better kill everybody off and get it over with than to just
regiment the hell out of everything. A man couldn't even stay home so
his wife could take care of his cold for him.
He sneezed. If allowed to live it, there were perhaps forty years of
life yet for him. Forty years, and they would be slave years. It was
all too damned new and just hadn't got through to him yet. What in
God's name was it going to be _like_....
There was a sickness in his stomach, and he knew it was not from his
cold.
"Manning--"
He looked up. It was Sweeney, the chief clerk. Manning always thought
of him as a man who should've been a first-sergeant somewhere. He was
big enough and loud enough, and certainly had temper enough.
"Yes, Mr. Sweeney?"
"Need these damn records right away. They all here? Each reel
double-wound with positive and negative both?"
"Yes, sir." Sweeney picked up the bundlesome stack of microfilm reels.
"Mr. Sweeney--"
"What is it?"
"Are--are _They_ going to get 'em? All of Earth's Space outpost and
military records--_every_thing?"
"After the Joint Chiefs make out emergency recall orders for every
last damn unit, they are. They will check each set of orders against
every unit record here, all the way from Corps down to each individual
ship." Sweeney grunted. "Then they'll burn 'em, positives, negatives,
everything ... then when the ships come in, they will destroy them too."