"Some four generations have been born here. Our duty has been merely to
await the arrival of our people. But in the last fifty years, we found
ourselves faced with another obligation. It was that obligation which
brought about the formation of Homelovers, Incorporated."
"I don't understand."
"We had underestimated the science of Earth. Our own necessity drove us
towards the perfection of space flight. Earth had no such urgency. But
now--" Livia looked mournful. "Now we were faced with the possibility
that Mars would soon be a colony of your own planet, before our people
had a chance to make it their rightful home. You can see the
consequences of that. A conflict of interests, a question of territorial
rights. Even the possibility of an interplanetary war--"
"War!"
"A possibility greatly to be abhorred," Andrusco said. "And one we were
sure we could eliminate, if we could merely _delay_ the colonization of
Mars."
"Don't you see?" Livia said earnestly. "If we could make Mars our
natural home, then the people of Earth would come to us as friendly
visitors--or invaders, whichever they prefer. But if we arrived too
late-- No, Tom. We feel that it is imperative--to the peace of _both_
our worlds--that Antamunda reach Mars first."
"Then it's a race!" Tom was bewildered.
"You may call it that. But a race we are determined to win. And we
_will_ win!"
Tom thought of another question.
"The infant," he said. "The creature with scales ..."
"It was mine," the girl said sadly. "Born to John and me some ten years
ago. Unfortunately, it did not live. And while your Earth eyes may
consider it a creature--" She drew herself up proudly. "It was a
perfectly formed Antamundan child."
Tom gaped at her.
"No," she said, answering the question in his gaze. "You are looking at
us as we are. We lose our scales after our infancy, when our mouths are
formed ..."
After a while, Tom asked:
"And what about Spencer?"
"Unfortunate," the man said. "His betrayal to the press would have done
us incalculable harm. It was necessary to do what we did."
"Then you did kill them?"
Livia turned her head aside.
"And you think I'll stand for that?" Tom said.
"Perhaps not," Andrusco said. "But frankly--I don't really know what you
can do about it. Except, of course, repeat this explanation to the
authorities. You're free to do that, Tom. Any time at all." He smiled,
slyly.
"You think they won't believe me?"
Livia came over to Tom's chair, and slithered one arm around his
shoulder.
"Why, Tom, darling. Are you so sure that _you_ believe it?"
* * * * *
He left the apartment some ten minutes later, and took a cab to 320
Fifth-Madison. It was almost five o'clock, and the steel-and-glass
cylinder was emptying rapidly of its Homelovers employees. He watched
the stream of ordinary people stepping off the elevators: the young
secretaries with their fresh faces and slim figures, laughing at office
anecdotes and sharing intimate confidences about office bachelors; the
smooth-cheeked young executives, in their gray and blue suits, gripping
well-stocked brief cases, and striding energetically down the lobby,
heading for the commuter trains; the paunchy, dignified men with their
gray temples and gleaming spectacles, walking slowly to the exits,
quoting stock prices and planning golf dates.
The crowd eddied about him like a battling current as he made his way
towards the elevators, and their images swam before his face in
pink-and-white blurs. And for one terrible moment, in the thickest
vortex of the crowd, he began to imagine that the faces were melting
before his eyes, the mouths disappearing into the flesh, and below the
white collars and black-knit ties and starched pink blouses appeared a
shimmering collection of ugly scales.
He shuddered, and stepped into an empty car, punching the button that
shot him to the executive floor of the Homelovers Building.
In his office, he switched on the visiphone and made contact with a
square-faced man who frowned mightily when he recognized his caller.
"What do you want?" Stinson said.
"I have to see you," Tom told him. "I learned something this afternoon,
about Walt Spencer. I don't know whether you'll believe it or not, but I
have to take that chance. Will you talk to me?"
"All right. But we'll have to make it down here."
"I'll be there in an hour. I want to organize a few things first. Then
we can talk."
Tom switched off, and began to empty his desk. He found nothing in the
official communications of the Homelovers that would substantiate his
story, but he continued to gather what information he could about the PR
program.
He was just clicking the locks on his brief case, when a gray-haired
woman with a pencil thrust into her curls popped her head in the
doorway.
"Mr. Blacker?" she smiled. "I'm Dora, Mr. Wright's secretary. Mr. Wright
wants to know if you'll stop in to see him."
"Wright?" Tom said blankly.
"The treasurer. His office is just down the hall. He's very anxious to
see you, something about the expense sheets you turned in last week."