And later, with the landlady back in her lair, Brent Taber sat down on
the stairs to wait; sat there with surprise at the feeling of relief
that filled his mind. He had no feeling of triumph about it; no sense of
a job well done. But there was no great guilt at having failed, either.
Mostly, he thought, it was the simplification that had come about. There
had been so many confusing and bewildering complications in the affair;
improbability piled on the impossible; the ridiculous coupled with the
incredible.
But now, with one stroke of a knife, it had been simplified and brought
into terms everyone could understand; into terms Captain Abrams of the
New York Police Department would grasp in an instant.
A killer was on the loose.
* * * * *
One of Senator Crane's priceless gifts was a sense of timing. Much of
his success had sprung from the instinctive knowledge of when to act. He
had a sense of the dramatic which never deserted him. As a result, he
had been known to turn in an instant from one subject to another--to
dodge defeats and score triumphs with bewildering agility.
His preoccupation on this particular day was with a home-state
issue--the location of a government plant. After he obtained the floor,
he counted the house and noted that only a bare quorum was present.
Gradually, the members of the Senate of the United States would drift to
their seats. So Crane began reading letters which tended to support his
state's claim to the new plant and the benefits that would accrue
therefrom.
Crane droned on. The Vice-President of the United States looked down on
the top of Senator Crane's massive head and became fruitfully
preoccupied with thoughts of his own.
Then, quite suddenly, the line of Crane's exposition changed. The
Vice-President wasn't quite sure at what precise point this had come
about. He wasn't aware of the change until some very strange words
penetrated:
" ... so, therefore, it has become starkly apparent that the American
people have been denied the information which would have made them
aware of their own deadly danger. Invasion from space is now imminent."
The Vice-President tensed. Had the stupid idiot gone mad? Or had he, the
Vice-President, been in a fog when vital, top-secret information had
been made public?
He banged the gavel down hard, for want of a better gesture, and was
grateful when a tall, dignified man with a look of deepest concern on
his face rose from behind his desk out on the floor.
"Will the Senator yield to his distinguished colleague from
Pennsylvania?"
Crane turned, scowling. "I will yield to no man on matters of grave
import." With that he turned and continued with his revelations. "The
people of this nation have been deprived of the knowledge that the
invasion from space has already begun. A vanguard of hideous, half-human
creatures have even now achieved a beach-head on our planet. Even now,
the evil hordes from beyond the stars ..."
The Vice-President looked around in a daze. Had someone forgotten to
brief him? Had that project come to a head overnight? The last he'd
heard there had been much doubt as to--
" ... The injustice perpetrated on the American people in this matter
has been monstrous. And this is not because of any lack of knowledge on
the part of the government. It has been because of the petty natures of
the men to whom this secret has been entrusted. Jealousies have dictated
policy where selfless public service was of the most vital importance
..."
The floor was filling up. The visitor's gallery was wrapped in hushed
silence. Newsmen, informed of sensational developments, were rushing
down corridors.
And the Vice-President was wondering why he hadn't had the good sense to
refuse the nomination.
" ... These invaders from another planet are not strangers to the men in
power. It is on record that they are inhuman monsters capable of killing
without mercy--yet they are quite ordinary in appearance. They walk the
streets, unsuspected, among us. It is on record right here in Washington
that these creatures are not human but, rather, soulless androids,
manufactured to destroy us, by a race so far ahead of us in scientific
knowledge that we are like children by comparison ..."
"Will the Senator yield to the Senator from Alabama?"
"I will not. I refuse to be gagged in the process of acquainting the
American people with facts upon which their very survival depends."
The floor was crowded now. The press and the visitors' galleries were
packed as Senator Crane's words continued to boom forth.
And in the press gallery a reporter from the Sioux City _Clarion_ looked
at a representative of the London _Times_, and said, "Good God! He's
gone off his rocker!"
The Englishman, aloof but definitely enthralled, touched his mustache
delicately and answered, "Quite."
* * * * *
Frank Corson rang the bell and waited at the door of Rhoda Kane's
apartment. The door opened. She wore a pale blue brunch coat. Her hair
glowed in the light of midmorning, but her face was pale and a little
drawn.
Her eyes were slightly red, as though she might have been crying.
"Hello, Rhoda."
"Hello, Frank."
"I really didn't expect to find you. I was going to write a note and
slip it under the door."
"I didn't feel well today so I didn't go to work."
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
Inside, a shadow of concern moved like a quick cloud across her
beautiful face. "You don't look well, Frank."
"I'm quite all right, really. Haven't been sleeping too well, but
there's been a lot on my mind."
"I've been hoping you'd phone."
"I wanted to but there didn't seem to be anything to say. Nothing except
that I'm sorry I let you down so miserably."
"Frank! You didn't. You really didn't. It was just that--oh, it's not
important any more."
"No. It's not important now."
"Would you like a drink?"
"Thanks, no. I've come to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?"
"Yes. I'm leaving Park Hill--leaving New York. I'm going into a small
Minnesota hospital to finish my internship. Then I'll probably practice
out there somewhere."
Behind the new glitter of her eyes there was stark misery.
"Frank--Frank--what went wrong with us?"
The appeal was a labored whisper.
"I don't know, Rhoda. I should know but I don't. I should have known
what was wrong so I could have done something about it. It just went
sour, I guess."
She turned and walked to the window. He wondered if there were tears in
her eyes.
"Good-bye, Rhoda."
"Good-bye, Frank. I'm sorry."
The door hadn't quite closed. Now, as Frank Corson turned, he found it
open. A man stood there--a man in a blue suit with empty eyes.
Frank stared at the man for long seconds. His eyes went toward the
window. Rhoda had turned. She was watching the man in the doorway,
looking past Frank at the creature from somewhere in space who was
neither man nor machine. _But how--?_ Frank Corson asked himself the
question. _Good God! How had this thing come about?_
"Not--not _him_," he finally exploded.
Rhoda was walking forward. The look of fevered excitement was in her
eyes. "Please leave, Frank." She did not look at him as she spoke. She
kept her eyes on the man in the blue suit.
"Not him!"
"Please leave, Frank."
But it was too late. The door had closed. The man was looking at Frank.
"Sit down," he said.
Frank Corson sat down. He saw the man and he saw Rhoda, but they seemed
unimportant. Something had happened to his mind and he was busy
struggling with it. That was all that was important.
The strange lethargy that came like a cloud over his mind was beyond
understanding.
* * * * *
Captain Abrams looked into the closet and back at Brent Taber. His lips
were back a little off his teeth. With Abrams, this indicated anger.
"All right. What does Washington do about this one? Does Washington tell
us to be good little boys and go hand out parking tickets?"
"It wasn't like that," Taber said.
"It doesn't much matter how it was. The thing is--how is it going to be
now?"
"You got a murder, friend. Plain and simple. What do the New York police
do when they get a murder?"
Abrams spoke bitterly. "Sometimes they let a panel truck drive in and
haul the body away and that's that."
"Let's save the sarcasm until later. I called you in. It's your case.
What do you want me to do?"
"Talk a little, maybe. The other one--now this one. The same killer?"
"I think so."
"What does he look like?"
"Medium height. One-eighty. Around forty. And dangerous."
"Dangerous, he says," Abrams muttered. "Any idea where we might go to
have a little talk with him?"
"No, can't say that I have."
"Try the streets of Manhattan--is that it?"
"I guess that's about it." Taber paused. "Wait a minute. If he's looking
for a spot to hide in he wouldn't come back here and he certainly
wouldn't try King's room. There's just a wide-open chance he might have
another location. Wait a minute while I look up an address."
* * * * *
An hour after he'd finished delivering his speech on the floor of the
Senate, Crane held a press conference in one of Washington's most
important hotels. The place was crowded. He stood on a platform, looked
out over a sea of heads, and pointed at an upraised hand for the first
question.
"Senator, have you gotten any reaction from the people of your state on
the revelations contained in your speech?"
"There has been very little time, but telegrams have been pouring in."
"What is the reaction?"
"Frankly, I haven't had time to read them. However, I think there is
little doubt as to the mood of my people. They will be indignant and
angry at Washington bungling."
He pointed to another hand.
"Senator, granting the details you outlined are accurate, have you any
knowledge as to--"
"Young man. _Every_ detail I outlined was completely accurate." Senator
Crane withered the reporter with a hostile look and pointed elsewhere.
"Senator, did you consult with the people responsible for handling the
situation before making your speech?"
"I tried. I was willing to co-operate in every way, but my patience ran
out. Also, I was alarmed at the bungling and inefficiency I saw. For
that reason I went straight to the people with my story."
"Senator, I have a wire from the governor of your state. It just arrived
in response to my query as to his attitude on this affair. The governor
says, quote, _No comment_, unquote. Would _you_ care to comment on his
statement?"
Senator Crane thought he heard a faint ripple of mirth drift across the
room. But, of course, he had to be mistaken. "I think the governor
replied wisely. I expect to return home and confer with him as soon as
possible."
"Senator, can you explain why, out of all the able, sincere officials in
Washington, D.C., elected or otherwise, you were the only one with
enough wisdom and courage to put this matter before the people?"
"Young man, I am not going to pass judgment on anyone in Washington or
elsewhere. Each of us, I'm sure, does his duty as he sees it."
Again it seemed to Senator Crane that he heard a ripple of mirth--louder
this time. It had to be something to do with the acoustics. Except that
he was suddenly aware of smiles, too. The next question had to do with
possible consultation with Russia on the matter of the coming space
invasion.
Senator Crane agreed that such consultation should be made and then
retired hastily into seclusion. A touch of panic hit him. He felt like a
man who was far out in the water without a boat, with the closest land a
few hundred feet straight down. Good God! Had he miscalculated? Of
course not. He had only to await the verdict of the nation's top
newspapers before proceeding with the publicity program that might well
make him presidential timber.
* * * * *
John Dennis, for the first time since Rhoda had known him, seemed
nervous. He kept licking his lips and shifting his eyes from Rhoda to
Frank Corson.
Frank Corson sat quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself. Rhoda crossed
to the liquor cabinet and poured a double Scotch. She went to the sofa
and sat down a little uncertainly.
"I guess you two haven't met. John, this is Frank Corson."
John Dennis paid no attention. He walked to the sofa, sat down, and took
a sheaf of notes from his jacket pocket.
"I've known Mr. Dennis for quite some time," Frank commented wryly.
"Be quiet."
John Dennis' tone was neither hostile nor friendly. They were the words
of a person whose mind was on other things. They watched him as his eyes
scanned the notes.
He appeared to be memorizing them.
The air became somewhat electric, the silence so deep it seemed to
scream. Rhoda looked across at Frank Corson. Frank's expression was
empty, as though he'd suffered some traumatic emotional blow and was
struggling to recover.
John Dennis stirred. He also appeared to be struggling. He turned his
eyes on the drink Rhoda was holding. He took it out of her hand and
downed it in a single gulp.
They watched as he went back to work, leafing through the notes, one at
a time. As he came close to the end, he lifted his head and shook it
violently, as though from sudden pain. He scowled at the empty glass
he'd handed back to Rhoda.
"Do you want another?" she inquired.
"Give me another."
She poured a second Scotch and handed it to him. He drank it like so
much water.
The last sheet of notations was covered. Then John Dennis sat motionless
for a minute, his frown and uncertainty returning. "It's hard to project
the details," he said. "All this detail. Difficult."
He dropped the last sheet and got up and poured himself another Scotch.
"They will make an army now," he said. The Scotch went down smoothly. He
went to the window and looked out. "This planet is different. The sun
there is blue and the air is very thin. Their bodies are nothing, but
their heads are very big. Now they will create an army and take this
planet."
Frank Corson was shaking his head slowly like a groggy fighter. Rhoda
sat huddled on the sofa, her mind such a mixture of tumbling emotions
that it seemed to be trying to tear itself out of her head. John Dennis
came back and stood in the middle of the room. He swayed drunkenly. "So
many things I don't understand. I see people I know--or I should know.
I--" He turned his eyes--eyes no longer empty--on Rhoda.
"I want to make love!"
Frank Corson got up from his chair and hurled himself on Dennis.
Rhoda screamed.
* * * * *
Senator Crane sat at his desk. There were a pile of newspapers in front
of him. The first one carried a front page story with the headline: