"Just one hitch," said Tommy. "The girls can't gestate in that climate,
at least not until they've been there long enough to get their glands
adjusted. Seems we have just the right climate here for gestating
Grdznth, even better than at home. So they came begging for permission
to stop here, on the way through, to rest and parturiate."
"So Earth becomes a glorified incubator." Pete got to his feet
thoughtfully. "This is all very touching," he said, "but it just doesn't
wash. If the Grdznth are so unpopular with the masses, why did we let
them in here in the first place?" He looked narrowly at Tommy. "To be
very blunt, what's the parking fee?"
"Plenty," said Tommy heavily. "That's the trouble, you see. The fee is
so high, Earth just can't afford to lose it. Charlie Karns'll tell you
why."
* * * * *
Charlie Karns from Math Section was an intense skeleton of a man with a
long jaw and a long white coat drooping over his shoulders like a
shroud. In his arms he clutched a small black box.
"It's the parallel universe business, of course," he said to Pete, with
Tommy beaming over his shoulder. "The Grdznth can cross through. They've
been able to do it for a long time. According to our figuring, this must
involve complete control of mass, space and dimension, all three. And
time comes into one of the three--we aren't sure which."
The mathematician set the black box on the desk top and released the
lid. Like a jack-in-the-box, two small white plastic spheres popped out
and began chasing each other about in the air six inches above the box.
Presently a third sphere rose up from the box and joined the fun.
Pete watched it with his jaw sagging until his head began to spin. "No
wires?"
"_Strictly_ no wires," said Charlie glumly. "No nothing." He closed the
box with a click. "This is one of their children's toys, and
theoretically, it can't work. Among other things, it takes null-gravity
to operate."
Pete sat down, rubbing his chin. "Yes," he said. "I'm beginning to see.
They're teaching you this?"
Tommy said, "They're trying to. He's been working for weeks with their
top mathematicians, him and a dozen others. How many computers have you
burned out, Charlie?"
"Four. There's a differential factor, and we can't spot it. They have
the equations, all right. It's a matter of translating them into
constants that make sense. But we haven't cracked the differential."
"And if you do, then what?"
Charlie took a deep breath. "We'll have inter-dimensional control, a
practical, utilizable transmatter. We'll have null-gravity, which means
the greatest advance in power utilization since fire was discovered. It
might give us the opening to a concept of time travel that makes some
kind of sense. And power! If there's an energy differential of any
magnitude--" He shook his head sadly.
"We'll also know the time-differential," said Tommy hopefully, "and how
long the Grdznth gestation period will be."
"It's a fair exchange," said Charlie. "We keep them until the girls have
their babies. They teach us the ABC's of space, mass and dimension."
Pete nodded. "That is, if you can make the people put up with them for
another six months or so."
Tommy sighed. "In a word--yes. So far we've gotten nowhere at a thousand
miles an hour."
* * * * *
"I can't do it!" the cosmetician wailed, hurling himself down on a chair
and burying his face in his hands. "I've failed. Failed!"
The Grdznth sitting on the stool looked regretfully from the cosmetician
to the Public Relations men. "I say--I _am_ sorry...." His coarse voice
trailed off as he peeled a long strip of cake makeup off his satiny
green face.
Pete Greenwood stared at the cosmetician sobbing in the chair. "What's
eating _him_?"
"Professional pride," said Tommy. "He can take twenty years off the face
of any woman in Hollywood. But he's not getting to first base with
Gorgeous over there. This is only one thing we've tried," he added as
they moved on down the corridor. "You should see the field reports.
We've tried selling the advances Earth will have, the wealth, the power.
No dice. The man on the street reads our PR-blasts, and then looks up to
see one of the nasty things staring over his shoulder at the newspaper."
"So you can't make them beautiful," said Pete. "Can't you make them
cute?"
"With those teeth? Those eyes? Ugh."
"How about the 'jolly company' approach?"
"Tried it. There's nothing jolly about them. They pop out of nowhere,
anywhere. In church, in bedrooms, in rush-hour traffic through Lincoln
Tunnel--look!"
Pete peered out the window at the traffic jam below. Cars were snarled
up for blocks on either side of the intersection. A squad of traffic
cops were converging angrily on the center of the mess, where a stream
of green reptilian figures seemed to be popping out of the street and
lumbering through the jammed autos like General Sherman tanks.
"Ulcers," said Tommy. "City traffic isn't enough of a mess as it is. And
they don't _do_ anything about it. They apologize profusely, but they
keep coming through." The two started on for the office. "Things are
getting to the breaking point. The people are wearing thin from sheer
annoyance--to say nothing of the nightmares the kids are having, and the
trouble with women fainting."
The signal light on Tommy's desk was flashing scarlet. He dropped into a
chair with a sigh and flipped a switch. "Okay, what is it now?"
"Just another senator," said a furious male voice. "Mr. Heinz, my
arthritis is beginning to win this fight. Are you going to see me now,
or aren't you?"
"Yes, yes, come right in!" Tommy turned white. "Senator Stokes," he
muttered. "I'd completely forgotten--"
The senator didn't seem to like being forgotten. He walked into the
office, looked disdainfully at the PR-men, and sank to the edge of a
chair, leaning on his umbrella.
"You have just lost your job," he said to Tommy, with an icy edge to his
voice. "You may not have heard about it yet, but you can take my word
for it. I personally will be delighted to make the necessary
arrangements, but I doubt if I'll need to. There are at least a hundred
senators in Washington who are ready to press for your dismissal, Mr.
Heinz--and there's been some off-the-record talk about a lynching.
Nothing official, of course."
"Senator--"
"Senator be hanged! We want somebody in this office who can manage to
_do_ something."
"Do something! You think I'm a magician? I can just make them vanish?
What do you want me to do?"
The senator raised his eyebrows. "You needn't shout, Mr. Heinz. I'm not
the least interested in _what_ you do. My interest is focused completely
on a collection of five thousand letters, telegrams, and visiphone calls
I've received in the past three days alone. My constituents, Mr. Heinz,
are making themselves clear. If the Grdznth do not go, I go."
"That would never do, of course," murmured Pete.
The senator gave Pete a cold, clinical look. "Who is this person?" he
asked Tommy.
"An assistant on the job," Tommy said quickly. "A very excellent
PR-man."