No matter how thin you slice it,
it's still boloney.
--Al Smith
"Resistance would have been futile, I suppose," Joy Linx said.
We were Monday-morning quarterbacking our capture, now nearly 24 hours
old.
"Never argue with a man with a gun," Rod Harris said. "Old city-desk
adage."
We were in a big room, much more luxurious than my previous
Monolithian cell, and which we judged to be at Ultra's dead center. It
had a wall-to-wall carpet, four couches, some straight chairs, a big
bare desk and indirect lighting. There were two doors--the one we'd
come in through and another to a well-equipped bathroom, which afforded
our only privacy from each other. We'd slept in our clothes on the
couches without blankets. It had been chilly.
We'd had no visitors except a Monolithian who brought us food but no
enlightenment about our fate. He said not a word to us.
In the morning we took turns in the bathroom, Rod and I shaving and Joy
fixing her face and untousling her hair.
"How about the next time the waiter comes in we jump him?" Joy asked.
"And how about him shooting us right in the head?" I said. "You notice
he keeps his gun right under the tray."
"Better to be a live coward than a dead hero," Rod said. "Old copy-desk
maxim."
"Never saw such level-headed, clear-thinking captives," Joy said. "I
admire your restraint."
"He who lives to run away may file his story another day," Rod said.
"Old----"
"Don't tell me. Old front-office memo. Well, what's your story going to
say, if you ever get to file it?"
"It's going to say Monolithians are no damn good. It's going to say
they should go back where they came from, since they don't like it
here. On Earth, I mean."
"It seems to be _us_ they don't like," I said. "Let's write a story,
Rod. It'll be something to do."
"Sure, why not? Even if it's published posthumously."
"That's what I like," Joy said. "Optimism. All right, you ace
reporters, go ahead and write your story. You can even dictate it to
me. I've got the old pad in the old handbag."
Joy took out her steno pad and poised a pencil over it.
Rod lay back on one of the couches. "Fair enough. How shall we start,
Sam?"
"Dateline," I said. "Ultra, August whatever-it-is--eleven? That part's
easy. Then what? AP? WW?"
"No," Rod said. "Special to the Free Press of the World. By Sam Kent
and Rod Harris."
"As told to Joy Linx," I said.
"Sure, put that down," Rod said. "It's going to look like one of those
six-man bylines in the _New York Post_, but what the hell."
"Thank you, gentlemen. Shall I read back what I've got so far?"
"Don't be flippant. Now let's see. A good lead is half the story. How
about, 'Probably the most fantastic plot in Earth's history was being
hatched today on the Monolithian super-satellite Ultra.'"
"Take out the 'probably,'" I said. "Earth never had an extraterrestrial
plot before."
"Good desk man's deletion. That's giving it the whambo-zambo. Now,
second sentence--new paragraph: 'A conspiracy involving substitution of
Earth's leading statesmen by Monolithians impersonating them down to
the last birthmark'--is that the way you see it, Sam?"
"Exactly," I said. "... 'down to the last birthmark threatens to reduce
the world to the status of a colony in an alien empire.'"
"Good," Rod said. "I see we're talking on the same channel. Now: 'The
seemingly friendly Monolithians, who made such a well-publicized point
of allying themselves, through the United Nations, with Earth's highest
aspirations toward peace and brotherhood....'"
We must have worked on it for two hours. When Joy had taken it all down
and we'd gone over it with the old editorial pencil, it read like this:
by Sam Kent and Rod Harris as told to Joy Linx
ULTRA, Aug. 11 (Special to the Free Press of the World)--The most
fantastic plot in Earth's history unfolded today in the Monolithian
super-satellite Ultra.
A conspiracy involving substitution of Earth's leading statesmen
by Monolithians impersonating them down to the last birthmark
threatened to reduce the world to the status of a colony in an
alien empire.
The seemingly friendly Monolithians who publicly allied themselves
with Earth's highest aspirations toward peace and brotherhood have
been unmasked as schemers and plotters bent on conquest--conquest
by bloodless subversion if possible, but by force if necessary.
Events have made it clear that the ordinary people of Earth, their
doubts stilled by the fact that their trusted leaders had agreed to
a super-summit meeting, had no way of knowing the great pressures
that had been brought to bear on their presidents and prime
ministers.
The recent "peril"--that of the alleged threat to annihilate the
world's major cities by Spaniolan O-bombs--has been revealed by
authoritative sources as a gigantic hoax.
These sources, who include an official close to the President of
the United States, are convinced that the threat never existed.
They said it was an incident manufactured by the Monolithians with
the willing cooperation of the Spaniolan dictator, General Domingo
Sanchez, whose reward was to be the role of ruler of the Caribbean.
He, too, is expected to find that he's been a dupe of the aliens,
it was learned, and may not live to reap his reward.
The O-bombs he professed to have were nonexistent, these sources
said. While it seems likely that the Monolithians do possess the
"conscience gas" which reportedly ended the threat, there is
extreme doubt that it was actually used on Domingo Sanchez--simply
because he was a willing tool of the Monolithians and it wasn't
necessary.
It is believed that knowledge of part of the plot was the factor
that induced Earth's leaders to agree to the so-called super-summit
meeting here. The Monolithians told them that the Spaniolan
bombers--accompanied by refueling planes able to keep them aloft
indefinitely--were already airborne and en route to the target
cities. Disguised as commercial jet airliners and flying regular
flight lanes, they avoided challenge by air defense forces.
Faced with the potential destruction of their cities, the world's
leaders were forced to agree to the fantastic trip through space,
in alien craft, to Ultra. "They were not naïve, as many supposed,"
one high official said. "They were taking what they believed was
the only step possible to save the lives of millions of innocent
people."
Thus the Monolithians, who held out hope of preventing this
unparalleled massacre, were able to entice Earth's top Statesmen
into the trap.
Once in Ultra, accompanied only by aides and a few military
personnel armed feebly with hand guns, they were sitting ducks for
the next twist of the alien plot.
This was the great substitution of incredibly well-trained
Monolithians--transformed by alien medico-science into exact
duplicates--for the presidents of the United States and France, the
Prime Minister of Great Britain, the Premier of the Soviet Union,
the Chancellor of Germany, and the others who went on the ill-fated
journey.
From here, the future course of the plot is plain to see. The fake
leaders, acclaimed by their people as the saviors of humanity,
will be able to do no wrong. Their declarations of faith in the
motives of the Monolithians will go unchallenged.
The next step--the absolute domination of Earth by the
Monolithians--will be a short and terrible one.
There was no typewriter in the room, so Joy had transcribed it into
longhand.
We were reading the story over and wondering aloud how, if ever, we
were going to file it when the door opened. Rod quickly dropped the
pages behind the couch.
Our jailer shoved another prisoner into the room and shut the door
again. It was Spookie Masters, comedian, bon vivant and world traveler,
looking sheepish.
"Pardon the intrusion, folks," Spookie said.
"I didn't know you were aboard," Rod said. "For pete's sake, Spookie,
what happened?"
"I stowed away," he said, his usual self-assurance returning. "Didn't
want to be left out of this great development in the affairs of men."
"Stowed away?" Joy said admiringly. "How could you? I thought security
was as tight as a drum." The hero worship the entertainer always
managed to evoke in women was shining in Joy's eyes.
"I guess I oversimplified," Spookie said. "Actually I used pull. Biff
Overton's an old friend of mine and I persuaded him to have Gov smuggle
me aboard in the guise of a fifth assistant undersecretary. Just
consider me one of the striped-pants set."
Overton was only the Secretary of the Treasury. Spookie Masters seemed
to know everybody.
"Yeah," Rod told him, "but somewhere along the line you goofed."
"That I did, Roddy my boy. I dropped the jolly old brick. I got bored
playing diplomat and started wandering around. Just strolling, and
having a look into this corner and that, you know, when it began to
dawn on me that everything wasn't strictly kosher."
"For instance?" I asked.
"Little things at first, Sam." I was pleased as a cub that he'd
remembered my name. "Like when I wandered into a funny room where they
were faking messages between Ultra and Earth."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, it was full of teletypes, like an Army message center I once
had the misfortune to be assigned to. It seemed to be a Monolithian
relay point. All the stories your colleagues filed passed through
it--and they were all being edited or censored. And the incoming
cables, or whatever you call them, were getting the same treatment.
Lots of bright young men hard at work, doctoring the news of the world.
Government messages, too. All Monolithians, I gather--but guess who
their boss was, Sam."
"Who?"
"You. I gave you the big hello and you gave me the big vacant stare,
and so I got out of there. I'm not an egomaniac, exactly, but I did
think it a bit strange that you didn't remember ol' Spookie Masters."
"That wasn't me," I said. "I saw him, too."
"I didn't know then there were two of you. But after I snooped some
more and saw two Gov Allisons and two French presidents and two of all
the rest, it percolated fast that there was a big deficiency in the
up-and-up department. By that time the boys in the wool cloaks were hot
on my tail and I ended up here with you other charming spies. I presume
that's what you're in for too."
"Where did you see these two sets of summiteers?" Rod asked. "I gather
it wasn't long ago."
"Just a few minutes ago," Spookie said. "It was at the big porthole
thing--you know, where we transferred from the spaceship. Only they
were going out--one set into one spaceship and the other into a second.
It's just a hunch, of course, but I sort of got the impression that the
wrong presidents were going back to Earth."