SHADES OF ORSON WELLS' MARTIAN
SCARE STALKS CAPITOL CORRIDORS.
Crane tossed the paper aside listlessly and picked up the second one:
SENATORS VOICE CONCERN FOR SANITY
OF COLLEAGUE
CRANE IN STUNNING TIRADE
WARNS OF SCIENCE-FICTION
DISASTER.
The third paper featured an internationally syndicated columnist, famous
for his biting wit:
* * * * *
Senator Crane today launched a one-man campaign to make America
space-conscious. If there was any Madison Avenue thinking behind the
launching it was certainly lower Madison Avenue.
In order to make his point--exactly what this was confused a vast
roomful of newspapermen--the Senator invented a race of creatures called
androids. These androids, it seems, look exactly like Tom Smith down the
block except that they'd just as soon cut your throat as not.
We fear the Senator must have been watching the wrong television
shows--knives yet, ugh!--possibly _Jim Bowie_, because there wasn't a
ray gun nor a disintegrator in his whole bag of exhibits.
All in all, it would appear that the project was pointed toward making
the people Senator Crane-conscious rather than aiming their attention at
the deadly heavens.
* * * * *
Senator Crane put that paper aside and looked at the next. This one,
more so than all the rest, was completely factual:
SENATOR CRANE DELUGED WITH WIRES
FROM HOME
CONSTITUENTS CLAIM WASHINGTON RIDICULE
HEAPED ON SENATOR REFLECTS AGAINST STATE.
Crane dropped the paper and got up from the desk.
That son-of-a-bitch Taber was to blame for this. Shaping
up a goddamn hoax and feeding it out piecemeal. By
God--!
He went to the desk and dialed, and when the answer came he said,
"Halliday? Senator Crane here. I want to have a little talk with you
about that damned tape. It's pretty obvious now that Taber planted it in
a deliberate attempt to ... What's that? An appointment! Why, goddamn
it, who the hell do you think you are?.... Fifteen minutes next
Wednesday? You're talking to a United States Senator--"
But Crane was no longer talking to Halliday. He had hung up.
Crane dialed another number. A pleasant female voice said, "Matthew
Porter's office."
"This is Senator Crane. Put Porter on."
"Just a moment."
Crane waited. He waited for what seemed like ages, but a glance at his
watch told him it had been less than five minutes. He disconnected and
dialed again.
"This is Crane. We got cut off. I want to talk to Porter."
"I'm sorry but Mr. Porter has gone for the day."
"Well, where can I reach him? It's important."
"I'm sorry. Mr. Porter left no number."
"When will he be back?"
"He didn't say."
Crane slammed the phone down. "The bastards!" he snarled. "The lousy,
crummy bastards. Running like a pack of scared rats. Bureaucrats!
Damned, cowardly, self-appointed opportunists!"
He stopped cursing and sat for a while.
When he got up and left the office he looked and felt old but he had
faced a truth. It would not be necessary to campaign next year.
It wouldn't be of any use.
13
John Dennis showed human surprise as Frank Corson lunged at him. He had
either been lax in using the controlling power he'd been given, or else
Frank Corson had an exceptional resistance.
Dennis released Rhoda, swayed drunkenly under Frank Corson's clumsy
football-type tackle, and swung his arm like a pivoting beam. The blow
was a lucky one. His fist smashed low on Corson's jaw, numbing the
nerves of his neck on the left side.
Corson went down and, as he lay helpless, Dennis kicked him twice--once
in the side and once, viciously effectively, in the head. Corson rolled
over and lay still.
Dennis looked down at him in a drunken daze. "They will make an army and
bring it here."
Rhoda, standing in the center of an emotional maelstrom, watched the
struggle from the prison of her own horror. At that moment she was
physically, mentally and spiritually ill; a human being caught in the
midst of forces beyond her knowledge and control.