ASSASSIN
by Jesse Bone
The rifle lay comfortably in his hands, a
gleaming precision instrument that exuded
a faint odor of gun oil and powder solvent.
It was a perfect specimen of the gunsmith's
art, a semi-automatic rifle with a telescopic
sight—a precisely engineered tool that could
hurl death with pinpoint accuracy for better
than half a mile.
Daniel Matson eyed the weapon with bleak gray
eyes, the eyes of a hunter framed in the passionless
face of an executioner. His blunt hands were
steady as they lifted the gun and tried a
dry shot at an imaginary target. He nodded
to himself. He was ready. Carefully he laid
the rifle down on the mattress which covered
the floor of his firing point, and looked
out through the hole in the brickwork to the
narrow canyon of the street below.
The crowd had thickened. It had been gathering
since early morning, and the growing press
of spectators had now become solid walls of
people lining the street, packed tightly together
on the sidewalks. Yet despite the fact that
there were virtually no police, the crowd
did not overflow into the streets, nor was
there any of the pushing crowding impatience
that once attended an assemblage of this sort.
Instead there was a placid tolerance, a spirit
of friendly good will, an ingenuous complaisance
that grated on Matson's nerves like the screeching
rasp of a file drawn across the edge of thin
metal. He shivered uncontrollably. It was
hard to be a free man in a world of slaves.
It was a measure of the Aztlan's triumph that
only a bare half-dozen police 'copters patrolled
the empty skies above the parade route. The
aliens had done this—had conquered the world
without firing a shot or speaking a word in
anger. They had wooed Earth with understanding
patience and superlative guile—and Earth
had fallen into their hands like a lovesick
virgin! There never had been any real opposition,
and what there was had been completely ineffective.
Most of those who had opposed the aliens were
out of circulation, imprisoned in correctional
institutions, undergoing rehabilitation. Rehabilitation!
a six bit word for dehumanizing. When those
poor devils finished their treatment with
Aztlan brain-washing techniques, they would
be just like these sheep below, with the difference
that they would never be able to be anything
else. But these other stupid fools crowding
the sidewalks, waiting to hail their destruction—these
were the ones who must be saved. They—not
the martyrs of the underground, were the important
part of humanity.
A police 'copter windmilled slowly down the
avenue toward his hiding place, the rotating
vanes and insect body of the craft starkly
outlined against the jagged backdrop of the
city's skyline. He laughed soundlessly as
the susurrating flutter of the rotor blades
beat overhead and died whispering in the distance
down the long canyon of the street. His position
had been chosen with care, and was invisible
from air and ground alike. He had selected
it months ago, and had taken considerable
pains to conceal its true purpose. But after
today concealment wouldn't matter. If things
went as he hoped, the place might someday
become a shrine. The idea amused him.
Strange, he mused, how events conspire to
change a man's career. Seven years ago he
had been a respected and important member
of that far different sort of crowd which
had welcomed the visitors from space. That
was a human crowd—half afraid, wholly curious,
jostling, noisy, pushing—a teeming swarm
that clustered in a thick disorderly ring
around the silver disc that lay in the center
of the International Airport overlooking Puget
Sound. Then—he could have predicted his
career. And none of the predictions would
have been true—for none included a man with
a rifle waiting in a blind for the game to
approach within range....
The Aztlan ship had landed early that July
morning, dropping silently through the overcast
covering International Airport. It settled
gently to rest precisely in the center of
the junction of the three main runways of
the field, effectively tying up the transcontinental
and transoceanic traffic. Fully five hundred
feet in diameter, the giant ship squatted
massively on the runway junction, cracking
and buckling the thick concrete runways under
its enormous weight.
By noon, after the first skepticism had died,
and the unbelievable TV pictures had been
flashed to their waiting audience, the crowd
began to gather. All through that hot July
morning they came, increasing by the minute
as farther outlying districts poured their
curious into the Airport. By early afternoon,
literally hundreds of millions of eyes were
watching the great ship over a world-wide
network of television stations which cancelled
their regular programs to give their viewers
an uninterrupted view of the enigmatic craft.
By mid-morning the sun had burned off the
overcast and was shining with brassy brilliance
upon the squads of sweating soldiers from
Fort Lewis, and more sweating squads of blue-clad
police from the metropolitan area of Seattle-Tacoma.
The police and soldiery quickly formed a ring
around the ship and cleared a narrow lane
around the periphery, and this they maintained
despite the increasing pressure of the crowd.
The hours passed and nothing happened. The
faint creaking and snapping sounds as the
seamless hull of the vessel warmed its space-chilled
metal in the warmth of the summer sun were
lost in the growing impatience of the crowd.
They wanted something to happen. Shouts and
catcalls filled the air as more nervous individuals
clamored to relieve the tension. Off to one
side a small group began to clap their hands
rhythmically. The little claque gained recruits,
and within moments the air was riven by the
thunder of thousands of palms meeting in unison.
Frightened the crowd might be, but greater
than fear was the desire to see what sort
of creatures were inside.
Matson stood in the cleared area surrounding
the ship, a position of privilege he shared
with a few city and state officials and the
high brass from McChord Field, Fort Lewis,
and Bremerton Navy Yard. He was one of the
bright young men who had chosen Government
Service as a career, and who, in these days
of science-consciousness had risen rapidly
through ability and merit promotions to become
the Director of the Office of Scientific Research
while still in his early thirties. A dedicated
man, trained in the bitter school of ideological
survival, he understood what the alien science
could mean to this world. Their knowledge
would secure peace in whatever terms the possessors
cared to name, and Matson intended to make
sure that his nation was the one which possessed
that knowledge.
He stood beside a tall scholarly looking man
named Roger Thornton, who was his friend and
incidentally the Commissioner of Police for
the Twin City metropolitan area. To a casual
eye, their positions should be reversed, for
the lean ascetic Thornton looked far more
like the accepted idea of a scientist than
burly, thick shouldered, square faced Matson,
whose every movement shouted Cop.
Matson glanced quizzically at the taller man.
"Well, Roger, I wonder how long those birds
inside are going to keep us waiting before
we get a look at them?"
"You'd be surprised if they really were birds,
wouldn't you?" Thornton asked with a faint
smile. "But seriously, I hope it isn't too
much longer. This mob is giving the boys a
bad time." He looked anxiously at the strained
line of police and soldiery. "I guess I should
have ordered out the night shift and reserves
instead of just the riot squad. From the looks
of things they'll be needed if this crowd
gets any more unruly."
Matson chuckled. "You're an alarmist," he
said mildly. "As far as I can see they're
doing all right. I'm not worried about them—or
the crowd, for that matter. The thing that's
bothering me is my feet. I've been standing
on 'em for six hours and they're killing me!"
"Mine too," Thornton sighed. "Tell you what
I'll do. When this is all over I'll split
a bucket of hot water and a pint of arnica
with you."
"It's a deal," Matson said.
As he spoke a deep musical hum came from inside
the ship, and a section of the rim beside
him separated along invisible lines of juncture,
swinging downward to form a broad ramp leading
upward to a square orifice in the rim of the
ship. A bright shadowless light that seemed
to come from the metal walls of the opening
framed the shape of the star traveller who
stood there, rigidly erect, looking over the
heads of the section of the crowd before him.
A concerted gasp of awe and admiration rose
from the crowd—a gasp that was echoed throughout
the entire ring that surrounded the ship.
There must be other openings like this one,
Matson thought dully as he stared at the being
from space. Behind him an Army tank rumbled
noisily on its treads as it drove through
the crowd toward the ship, the long gun in
its turret lifting like an alert finger to
point at the figure of the alien.
The stranger didn't move from his unnaturally
stiff position. His oddly luminous eyes never
wavered from their fixed stare at a point
far beyond the outermost fringes of the crowd.
Seven feet tall, obviously masculine, he differed
from mankind only in minor details. His long
slender hands lacked the little finger, and
his waist was abnormally small. Other than
that, he was human in external appearance.
A wide sleeved tunic of metallic fabric covered
his upper body, gathered in at his narrow
waist by a broad metal belt studded with tiny
bosses. The tunic ended halfway between hip
and knee, revealing powerfully muscled legs
encased in silvery hose. Bright yellow hair
hung to his shoulders, clipped short in a
square bang across his forehead. His face
was long, clean featured and extraordinarily
calm—almost godlike in its repose. Matson
stared, fascinated. He had the curious impression
that the visitor had stepped bodily out of
the Middle Ages. His dress and haircut were
almost identical with that of a medieval courtier.
The starman raised his hand—his strangely
luminous steel gray eyes scanned the crowd—and
into Matson's mind came a wave of peaceful
calm, a warm feeling of goodwill and brotherhood,
an indescribable feeling of soothing relaxation.
With an odd sense of shock Matson realized
that he was not the only one to experience
this. As far back as the farthest hangers-on
near the airport gates the tenseness of the
waiting crowd relaxed. The effect was amazing!
Troops lowered their weapons with shamefaced
smiles on their faces. Police relaxed their
sweating vigilance. The crowd stirred, moving
backward to give its members room. The emotion-charged
atmosphere vanished as though it had never
been. And a cold chill played icy fingers
up the spine of Daniel Matson. He had felt
the full impact of the alien's projection,
and he was more frightened than he had ever
been in his life!
They had been clever—damnably clever! That
initial greeting with its disarming undertones
of empathy and innocence had accomplished
its purpose. It had emasculated Mankind's
natural suspicion of strangers. And their
subsequent actions—so beautifully timed—so
careful to avoid the slightest hint of evil,
had completed what their magnificently staged
appearance had begun.
The feeling of trust had persisted. It lasted
through quarantine, clearance, the public
receptions, and the private meetings with
scientists and the heads of government. It
had persisted unabated through the entire
two months they remained in the Twin City
area. The aliens remained as they had been
in the beginning—completely unspoiled by
the interest shown in them. They remained
simple, unaffected, and friendly, displaying
an ingenuous innocence that demanded a corresponding
faith in return.
Most of their time was spent at the University
of Washington, where at their own request
they were studied by curious scholars, and
in return were given courses in human history
and behavior. They were quite frank about
their reasons for following such a course
of action—according to their spokesman Ixtl
they wanted to learn human ways in order to
make a better impression when they visited
the rest of Mankind. Matson read that blurb
in an official press release and laughed cynically.
Better impression, hah! They couldn't have
done any better if they had an entire corps
of public relations specialists assisting
them! They struck exactly the right note—and
how could they improve on perfection?
From the beginning they left their great ship
open and unguarded while they commuted back
and forth from the airport to the campus.
And naturally the government quickly rectified
the second error and took instant advantage
of the first. A guard was posted around the
ship to keep it clear of the unofficially
curious, while the officially curious combed
the vessel's interior with a fine tooth comb.
Teams of scientists and technicians under
Matson's direction swarmed through the ship,
searching with the most advanced methods of
human science for the secrets of the aliens.
They quickly discovered that while the star
travellers might be trusting, they were not
exactly fools. There was nothing about the
impenetrably shielded mechanisms that gave
the slightest clue as to their purpose or
to the principles upon which they operated—nor
were there any visible controls. The ship
was as blankly uncommunicative as a brick
wall.
Matson was annoyed. He had expected more than
this, and his frustration drove him to watch
the aliens closely. He followed them, sat
in on their sessions with the scholars at
the University, watched them at their frequent
public appearances, and came to know them
well enough to recognize the microscopic differences
that made them individuals. To the casual
eye they were as alike as peas in a pod, but
Matson could separate Farn from Quicha, and
Laz from Acana—and Ixtl—well he would
have stood out from the others in any circumstances.
But Matson never intruded. He was content
to sit in the background and observe.
And what he saw bothered him. They gave him
no reason for their appearance on Earth, and
whenever the question came up Ixtl parried
it adroitly. They were obviously not explorers
for they displayed a startling familiarity
with Earth's geography and ecology. They were
possibly ambassadors, although they behaved
like no ambassadors he had ever seen. They
might be traders, although what they would
trade only God and the aliens knew—and neither
party was in a talking mood. Mysteries bothered
Matson. He didn't like them. But they could
keep their mystery if he could only have the
technical knowledge that was concealed beneath
their beautifully shaped skulls.
At that, he had to admit that their appearance
had come at precisely the right time. No one
better than he knew how close Mankind had
been to the final war, when the last two major
antagonists on Earth were girding their human
and industrial power for a final showdown.
But the aliens had become a diversion. The
impending war was forgotten while men waited
to see what was coming next. It was obvious
that the starmen had a reason for being here,
and until they chose to reveal it, humanity
would forget its deadly problems in anticipation
of the answer to this delightful puzzle that
had come to them from outer space. Matson
was thankful for the breathing space, all
too well aware that it might be the last that
Mankind might have, but the enigma of the
aliens still bothered him.
He was walking down the main corridor of the
Physics Building on the University campus,
wondering as he constantly did about how he
could extract some useful knowledge from the
aliens when a quiet voice speaking accentless
English sounded behind him.
"What precisely do you wish to know, Dr. Matson?"
the voice said.
Matson whirled to face the questioner, and
looked into the face of Ixtl. The alien was
smiling, apparently pleased at having startled
him. "What gave you the idea that I wanted
to know anything?" he asked.
"You did," Ixtl said. "We all have been conscious
of your thoughts for many days. Forgive me
for intruding, but I must. Your speculations
radiate on such a broad band that we cannot
help being aware of them. It has been quite
difficult for us to study your customs and
history with this high level background noise.
We are aware of your interest, but your thoughts
are so confused that we have never found questions
we could answer. If you would be more specific
we would be happy to give you the information
which you seek."
"Oh yeah!" Matson thought.
"Of course. It would be to our advantage to
have your disturbing speculations satisfied
and your fears set at rest. We could accomplish
more in a calmer environment. It is too bad
that you do not receive as strongly as you
transmit. If you did, direct mental contact
would convince you that our reasons for satisfying
you are good. But you need not fear us, Earthman.
We intend you no harm. Indeed, we plan to
help you once we learn enough to formulate
a proper program."
"I do not fear you," Matson said—knowing
that he lied.
"Perhaps not consciously," Ixtl said graciously,
"but nevertheless fear is in you. It is too
bad—and besides," he continued with a faint
smile "it is very uncomfortable. Your glandular
emotions are quite primitive, and very disturbing."
"I'll try to keep them under control," Matson
said dryly.
"Physical control is not enough. With you
there would have to be mental control as well.
Unfortunately you radiate much more strongly
than your fellow men, and we are unable to
shut you out without exerting considerable
effort that could better be employed elsewhere."
The alien eyed Matson speculatively. "There
you go again," he said. "Now you're angry."
Matson tried to force his mind to utter blankness,
and the alien smiled at him. "It does some
good—but not much," he said. "Conscious
control is never perfect."
"Well then, what can I do?"
"Go away. Your range fortunately is short."
Matson looked at the alien. "Not yet," he
said coldly. "I'm still looking for something."
"Our technology," Ixtl nodded. "I know. However
I can assure you it will be of no help to
you. You simply do not have the necessary
background. Our science is based upon a completely
different philosophy from yours."
To Matson the terms were contradictory.
"Not as much as you think," Ixtl continued
imperturbably. "As you will find out, I was
speaking quite precisely." He paused and eyed
Matson thoughtfully. "It seems as though the
only way to remove your disturbing presence
is to show you that our technology is of no
help to you. I will make a bargain with you.
We shall show you our machines, and in return
you will stop harassing us. We will do all
in our power to make you understand; but whether
you do or do not, you will promise to leave
and allow us to continue our studies in peace.
Is that agreeable?"
Matson swallowed the lump in his throat. Here
it was—handed to him on a silver platter—and
suddenly he wasn't sure that he wanted it!
"It is," he said. After all, it was all he
could expect.
They met that night at the spaceship. The
aliens, tall, calm and cool; Matson stocky,
heavy-set and sweating. The contrast was infernally
sharp, Matson thought. It was as if a primitive
savage were meeting a group of nuclear physicists
at Los Alamos. For some unknown reason he
felt ashamed that he had forced these people
to his wishes. But the aliens were pleasant
about it. They took the imposition in their
usual friendly way.
"Now," Ixtl said. "Exactly what do you want
to see—to know?"
"First of all, what is the principle of your
space drive?"
"There are two," the alien said. "The drive
that moves this ship in normal space time
is derived from Lurgil's Fourth Order equations
concerning the release of subatomic energy
in a restricted space time continuum. Now
don't protest! I know you know nothing of
Lurgil, nor of Fourth Order equations. And
while I can show you the mathematics, I'm
afraid they will be of little help. You see,
our Fourth Order is based upon a process which
you would call Psychomathematics and that
is something I am sure you have not yet achieved."
Matson shook his head. "I never heard of it,"
he admitted.
"The second drive operates in warped space
time," Ixtl continued, "hyperspace in your
language, and its theory is much more difficult
than that of our normal drive, although its
application is quite simple, merely involving
apposition of congruent surfaces of hyper
and normal space at stress points in the ether
where high gravitational fields balance. Navigation
in hyperspace is done by electronic computer—somewhat
more advanced models than yours. However,
I can't give you the basis behind the hyperspace
drive." Ixtl smiled depreciatingly. "You see,
I don't know them myself. Only a few of the
most advanced minds of Aztlan can understand.
We merely operate the machines."
Matson shrugged. He had expected something
like this. Now they would stall him off about
the machines after handing him a fast line
of double-talk.
"As I said," Ixtl went on, "there is no basis
for understanding. Still, if it will satisfy
you, we will show you our machines—and the
mathematics that created them although I doubt
that you will learn anything more from them
than you have from our explanation."
"I could try," Matson said grimly.
"Very well," Ixtl replied.
He led the way into the center of the ship
where the seamless housings stood, the housings
that had baffled some of the better minds
of Earth. Matson watched while the star men
proceeded to be helpful. The housings fell
apart at invisible lines of juncture, revealing
mechanisms of baffling simplicity, and some
things that didn't look like machines at all.
The aliens stripped the strange devices and
Ixtl attempted to explain. They had anti-gravity,
forcefields, faster than light drive, and
advanced design computers that could be packed
in a suitcase. There were weird devices whose
components seemed to run out of sight at crazily
impossible angles, other things that rotated
frictionlessly, suspended in fields of pure
force, and still others which his mind could
not envisage even after his eyes had seen
them. All about him lay the evidence of a
science so advanced and alien that his brain
shrank from the sight, refusing to believe
such things existed. And their math was worse!
It began where Einstein left off and went
off at an incomprehensible tangent that involved
psychology and ESP. Matson was lost after
the first five seconds!
Stunned, uncomprehending and deflated, he
left the ship. An impression that he was standing
with his toe barely inside the door of knowledge
became a conscious certainty as he walked
slowly to his car. The wry thought crossed
his mind that if the aliens were trying to
convince him of his abysmal ignorance, they
had succeeded far beyond their fondest dreams!
They certainly had! Matson thought grimly
as he selected five cartridges from the box
lying beside him. In fact they had succeeded
too well. They had turned his deflation into
antagonism, his ignorance into distrust. Like
a savage, he suspected what he could not understand.
But unlike the true primitive, the emotional
distrust didn't interfere with his ability
to reason or to draw logical inferences from
the data which he accumulated. In attempting
to convince, Ixtl had oversold his case.
It was shortly after he had returned to Washington,
that the aliens gave the waiting world the
reasons for their appearance on Earth. They
were, they said, members of a very ancient
highly evolved culture called Aztlan. And
the Aztlans, long past the need for conquest
and expansion, had turned their mighty science
to the help of other, less fortunate, races
in the galaxy. The aliens were, in a sense,
missionaries—one of hundreds of teams travelling
the star lanes to bring the benefits of Aztlan
culture to less favored worlds. They were,
they unblushingly admitted, altruists—interested
only in helping others.
It was pure corn, Matson reflected cynically,
but the world lapped it up and howled for
more. After decades of cold war, lukewarm
war, and sporadic outbreaks of violence, that
were inevitably building to atomic destruction,
men were willing to try anything that would
ease the continual burden of strain and worry.
To Mankind, the Aztlans' words were as refreshing
as a cool breeze of hope in a desert of despair.
And the world got what it wanted.
Quite suddenly the aliens left the Northwest,
and accompanied by protective squads of FBI
and Secret Service began to cross the nation.
Taking widely separated paths they visited
cities, towns, and farms, exhibiting the greatest
curiosity about the workings of human civilization.
And, in turn, they were examined by hordes
of hopeful humans. Everywhere they went, they
spread their message of good will and hope
backed by the incredibly convincing power
of their telepathic minds. Behind them, they
left peace and hopeful calm; before them,
anticipation mounted. It rose to a crescendo
in New York where the paths of the star men
met.
The Aztlans invaded the United Nations. They
spoke to the General Assembly and the Security
Council, were interviewed by the secretariat
and reporters from a hundred foreign lands.
They told their story with such conviction
that even the Communist bloc failed to raise
an objection, which was as amazing to the
majority of the delegates as the fact of the
star men themselves. Altruism, it seemed,
had no conflict with dialectic materialism.
The aliens offered a watered-down variety
of their technology to the peoples of Earth
with no strings attached, and the governments
of Earth accepted with open hands, much as
a small boy accepts a cookie from his mother.
It was impossible for men to resist the lure
of something for nothing, particularly when
it was offered by such people as the Aztlans.
After all, Matson reflected bitterly, nobody
shoots Santa Claus!
From every nation in the world came invitations
to the aliens to visit their lands. The star
men cheerfully accepted. They moved across
Europe, Asia, and Africa—visited South America,
Central America, the Middle East and Oceania.
No country escaped them. They absorbed languages,
learned customs, and spread good will. Everywhere
they went relaxation followed in their footsteps,
and throughout the world arose a realization
of the essential brotherhood of man.
It took nearly three years of continual travelling
before the aliens again assembled at UN headquarters
to begin the second part of their promised
plan—to give their science to Earth. And
men waited with calm expectation for the dawn
of Golden Age.
Matson's lips twisted. Fools! Blind, stupid
fools! Selling their birthright for a mess
of pottage! He shifted the rifle across his
knees and began filling the magazine with
cartridges. He felt an empty loneliness as
he closed the action over the filled magazine
and turned the safety to "on". There was no
comforting knowledge of support and sympathy
to sustain him in what he was about to do.
There was no real hope that there ever would
be. His was a voice crying in the wilderness,
a voice that was ignored—as it had been
when he visited the President of the United
States....
Matson entered the White House, presented
his appointment card, and was ushered past
ice-eyed Secret Service men into the presidential
office. It was as close as he had ever been
to the Chief Executive, and he stared with
polite curiosity across the width of desk
which separated them.
"I wanted to see you about the Aztlan business,"
the President began without preamble. "You
were there when their ship landed, and you
are also one of the few men in the country
who has seen them alone. In addition, your
office will probably be handling the bulk
of our requests in regard to the offer they
made yesterday in the UN. You're in a favorable
spot." The President smiled and shrugged.
"I wanted to talk with you sooner, but business
and routine play the devil with one's desires
in this office.
"Now tell me," he continued, "your impression
of these people."
"They're an enigma," Matson said flatly. "To
tell the truth, I can't figure them out."
He ran his fingers through his hair with a
worried gesture. "I'm supposed to be a pretty
fair physicist, and I've had quite a bit of
training in the social sciences, but both
the mechanisms and the psychology of these
Aztlans are beyond my comprehension. All I
can say for sure is that they're as far beyond
us as we are beyond the cavemen. In fact,
we have so little in common that I can't think
of a single reason why they would want to
stay here, and the fact that they do only
adds to my confusion."
"But you must have learned something," the
President said.
"Oh we've managed to collect data," Matson
replied. "But there's a lot of difference
between data and knowledge."
"I can appreciate that, but I'd still like
to know what you think. Your opinion could
have some weight."
Matson doubted it. His opinions were contrary
to those of the majority. Still, the Chief
asked for it—and he might possibly have
an open mind. It was a chance worth taking.
"Well, Sir, I suppose you've heard of the
so-called "wild talents" some of our own people
occasionally possess?"
The President nodded.
"It is my belief," Matson continued, "that
the Aztlans possess these to a far greater
degree than we do, and that their science
is based upon them. They have something which
they call psychomathematics, which by definition
is the mathematics of the mind, and this seems
to be the basis of their physical science.
I saw their machines, and I must confess that
their purpose baffled me until I realized
that they must be mechanisms for amplifying
their own natural equipment. We know little
or nothing about psi phenomena, so it is no
wonder I couldn't figure them out. As a matter
of fact we've always treated psi as something
that shouldn't be mentioned in polite scientific
conversation."
The President grinned. "I always thought you
boys had your blind spots."
"We do—but when we're confronted with a
fact, we try to find out something about it—that
is if the fact hits us hard enough, often
enough."
"Well, you've been hit hard and often," the
President chuckled, "What did you find out?"
"Facts," Matson said grimly, "just facts.
Things that could be determined by observation
and measurement. We know that the aliens are
telepathic. We also know that they have a
form of ESP—or perhaps a recognition of
danger would be a better term—and we know
its range is somewhat over a third of a mile.
We know that they're telekinetic. The lack
of visible controls in their ship would tell
us that, even if we hadn't seen them move
small objects at a distance. We know that
they have eidetic memories, and that they
can reason on an extremely high level. Other
than that we know nothing. We don't even know
their physical structure. We've tried X-ray
but they're radio-opaque. We've tried using
some human sensitives from the Rhine Institute,
but they're unable to get anywhere. They just
turn empathic in the aliens' presence, and
when we get them back, they do nothing but
babble about the beauty of the Aztlan soul."
"Considering the difficulties, you haven't
done too badly," the President said. "I take
it then, that you're convinced that they are
an advanced life form. But do you think they're
sincere in their attitude toward us?"
"Oh, they're sincere enough," Matson said.
"The only trouble is that we don't know just
what they're sincere about. You see, sir,
we are in the position of a savage to whom
a trader brings the luxuries of civilization.
To the savage, the trader may represent purest
altruism, giving away such valuable things
as glass beads and machine made cloth for
useless pieces of yellow rock and the skins
of some native pest. The savage hasn't the
slightest inkling that he's being exploited.
By the time he realizes he's been had, and
the yellow rock is gold and the skins are
mink, he has become so dependent upon the
goods for which the trader has whetted his
appetite that he inevitably becomes an economic
slave.
"Of course you can argue that the cloth and
beads are far more valuable to the savage
than the gold or mink. But in the last analysis,
value is determined by the higher culture,
and by that standard, the savage gets taken.
And ultimately civilization moves in and the
superior culture of the trader's race determines
how the savage will act.
"Still, the savage has a basis for his acts.
He is giving something for something—making
a trade. But we're not even in that position.
The aliens apparently want nothing from us.
They have asked for nothing except our good
will, and that isn't a tradable item."
"But they're altruists!" the President protested.
"Sir, do you think that they're insane?" Matson
asked curiously. "Do they appear like fanatics
to you?"
"But we can't apply our standards to them.
You yourself have said that their civilization
is more advanced than ours."
"Whose standards can we apply?" Matson asked.
"If not ours, then whose? The only standards
that we can possibly apply are our own, and
in the entire history of human experience
there has never been a single culture that
has had a basis of pure altruism. Such a culture
could not possibly exist. It would be overrun
and gobbled up by its practical neighbors
before it drew its first breath.
"We must assume that the culture from which
these aliens come has had a practical basis
in its evolutionary history. It could not
have risen full blown and altruistic like
Minerva from the brain of Jove. And if the
culture had a practical basis in the past,
it logically follows that it has a practical
basis in the present. Such a survival trait
as practicality would probably never be lost
no matter how far the Aztlan race has evolved.
Therefore, we must concede that they are practical
people—people who do not give away something
for nothing. But the question still remains—what
do they want?
"Whatever it is, I don't think it is anything
from which we will profit. No matter how good
it looks, I am convinced that cooperation
with these aliens will not ultimately be to
our advantage. Despite the reports of every
investigative agency in this government, I
cannot believe that any such thing as pure
altruism exists in a sane mind. And whatever
I may believe about the Aztlans, I do not
think they're insane."
The President sighed. "You are a suspicious
man, Matson, and perhaps you are right; but
it doesn't matter what you believe—or what
I believe for that matter. This government
has decided to accept the help the Aztlans
are so graciously offering. And until the
reverse is proven, we must accept the fact
that the star men are altruists, and work
with them on that basis. You will organize
your office along those lines, and extract
every gram of information that you can. Even
you must admit that they have knowledge that
will improve our American way of life."
Matson shook his head doggedly. "I'm afraid,
Sir, if you expect Aztlan science to improve
the American way of life, you are going to
be disappointed. It might promote an Aztlan
way of life, but the reverse is hardly possible."
"It's not my decision," the President said.
"My hands are tied. Congress voted for the
deal by acclamation early this morning. I
couldn't veto it even if I wanted to."
"I cannot cooperate in what I believe is our
destruction." Matson said in a flat voice.
"Then you have only one course," the President
said. "I will be forced to accept your resignation."
He sighed wearily.
"Personally, I think you're making a mistake.
Think it over before you decide. You're a
good man, and Lord knows the government can
use good men. There are far too many fools
in politics." He shrugged and stood up. The
interview was over.
Matson returned to his offices, filled with
cold frustration. Even the President believed
he could do nothing, and these shortsighted
politicians who could see nothing more than
the immediate gains—there was a special
hell reserved for them. There were too many
fools in politics. However, he would do what
he could. His sense of duty was stronger than
his resentment. He would stay on and try to
cushion some of the damage which the Aztlans
would inevitably cause, no matter how innocent
their motives. And perhaps the President was
right—perhaps the alien science would bring
more good than harm.
For the next two years Matson watched the
spread of Aztlan ideas throughout the world.
He saw Aztlan devices bring health, food and
shelter to millions in underprivileged countries,
and improve the lot of those in more favored
nations. He watched tyrannies and authoritarian
governments fall under the passive resistance
of their peoples. He saw militarism crumble
to impotence as the Aztlan influence spread
through every facet of society, first as a
trickle, then as a steady stream, and finally
as a rushing torrent. He saw Mankind on the
brink of a Golden Age—and he was unsatisfied.
Reason said that the star men were exactly
what they claimed to be. Their every action
proved it. Their consistency was perfect,
their motives unimpeachable, and the results
of their efforts were astounding. Life on
Earth was becoming pleasant for millions who
never knew the meaning of the word. Living
standards improved, and everywhere men were
conscious of a feeling of warmth and brotherhood.
There was no question that the aliens were
doing exactly what they promised.
But reason also told him that the aliens were
subtly and methodically destroying everything
that man had created, turning him from an
individual into a satisfied puppet operated
by Aztlan strings. For man is essentially
lazy—always searching for the easier way.
Why should he struggle to find an answer when
the Aztlans had discovered it millennia ago
and were perfectly willing to share their
knowledge? Why should he use inept human devices
when those of the aliens performed similar
operations with infinitely more ease and efficiency?
Why should he work when all he had to do was
ask? There was plan behind their acts.
But at that point reason dissolved into pure
speculation. Why were they doing this? Was
it merely mistaken kindliness or was there
a deeper more subtle motive? Matson didn't
know, and in that lack of knowledge lay the
hell in which he struggled.
For two years he stayed on with the OSR, watching
humanity rush down an unmarked road to an
uncertain future. Then he ran away. He could
take no more of this blind dependence upon
alien wisdom. And with the change in administration
that had occurred in the fall elections he
no longer had the sense of personal loyalty
to the President which had kept him working
at a job he despised. He wanted no part of
this brave new world the aliens were creating.
He wanted to be alone. Like a hermit of ancient
times who abandoned society to seek his soul,
Matson fled to the desert country of the South-west—as
far as possible from the Aztlans and their
works.
The grimly beautiful land toughened his muscles,
blackened his skin, and brought him a measure
of peace. Humanity retreated to remoteness
except for Seth Winters, a leathery old-timer
he had met on his first trip into the desert.
The acquaintance had ripened to friendship.
Seth furnished a knowledge of the desert country
which Matson lacked, and Matson's money provided
the occasional grubstake they needed. For
weeks at a time they never saw another human—and
Matson was satisfied. The world could go its
own way. He would go his.
Running away was the smartest thing he could
have done. Others more brave perhaps, or perhaps
less rational—had tried to fight, to form
an underground movement to oppose these altruists
from space; but they were a tiny minority
so divided in motives and purpose that they
could not act as a unit. They were never more
than a nuisance, and without popular support
they never had a chance. After the failure
of a complicated plot to assassinate the aliens,
they were quickly rounded up and confined.
And the aliens continued their work.
Matson shrugged. It was funny how little things
could mark mileposts in a man's life. If he
had known of the underground he probably would
have joined it and suffered the same penalty
for failure. If he hadn't fled, if he hadn't
met Seth Winters, if he hadn't taken that
last trip into the desert, if any one of a
hundred little things had happened differently
he would not be here. That last trip into
the desert—he remembered it as though it
were yesterday....
The yellow flare of a greasewood fire cast
flickering spears of light into the encircling
darkness. Above, in the purplish black vault
of the moonless sky the stars shone down with
icy splendor. The air was quiet, the evening
breeze had died, and the stillness of the
desert night pressed softly upon the earth.
Far away, muted by distance, came the ululating
wail of a coyote.
Seth Winters laid another stick of quick-burning
greasewood on the fire and squinted across
the smoke at Matson who was lying on his back,
arms crossed behind his head, eyeing the night
sky with the fascination of a dreamer.
"It's certainly peaceful out here," Matson
murmured as he rose to his feet, stretched,
and sat down again looking into the tiny fire.
"'Tain't nothin' unusual, Dan'l. Not out here
it ain't. It's been plumb peaceful on this
here desert nigh onto a million years. An'
why's it peaceful? Mainly 'cuz there ain't
too many humans messin' around in it."
"Possibly you're right, Seth."
"Shore I'm right. It jest ain't nacheral fer
a bunch of Homo saps to get together without
an argyment startin' somewhere. 'Tain't the
nature of the critter to be peaceable. An'
y'know, thet's the part of this here sweetness
an' light between nations that bothers me.
Last time I was in Prescott, I set down an'
read six months of newspapers—an' everything's
jest too damn good to be true. Seems like
everybody's gettin' to love everybody else."
He shook his head. "The hull world's as sticky-sweet
as molasses candy. It jest ain't nacheral!"
"The star men are keeping their word. They
said that they would bring us peace. Isn't
that what they're doing?"
"Shucks Dan'l—that don't give 'em no call
to make the world a blasted honey-pot with
everybody bubblin' over with brotherly love.
There ain't no real excitement left. Even
the Commies ain't raisin' hell like they useta.
People are gettin' more like a bunch of damn
woolies every day."
"I'll admit that Mankind had herd instincts,"
Matson replied lazily, "but I've never thought
of them as particularly sheeplike. More like
a wolf pack, I'd say."
"Wal, there's nothin' wolflike about 'em right
now. Look, Dan'l, yuh know what a wolf pack's
like. They're smart, tough, and mean—an'
the old boss wolf is the smartest, toughest,
and meanest critter in the hull pack. The
others respect him 'cuz he's proved his ability
to lead. But take a sheep flock now—the
bellwether is jest a nice gentle old castrate
thet'll do jest whut the sheepherder wants.
He's got no originality. He's jest a noise
thet the rest foller."
"Could be."
"It shore is! Jes f'r instance, an' speakin'
of bellwethers, have yuh ever heard of a character
called Throckmorton Bixbee?"
"Can't say I have. He sounds like a nance."
"Whutever a nance is—he's it! But yuh're
talkin' about our next President, unless all
the prophets are wrong. He's jest as bad as
his name. Of all the gutless wonders I've
ever heard of that pilgrim takes the prize.
He even looks like a rabbit!"
"I can see where I had better catch up on
some contemporary history," Matson said. "I've
been out in the sticks too long."
"If yuh know what's good fer yuh, yuh'll stay
here. The rest of the country's goin' t'hell.
Brother Bixbee's jest a sample. About the
only thing that'd recommend him is that he's
hot fer peace—an' he's got those furriners'
blessing. Seems like those freaks swing a
lotta weight nowadays, an' they ain't shy
about tellin' folks who an' what they favor.
They've got bold as brass this past year."
Matson nodded idly—then stiffened—turning
a wide eyed stare on Seth. A blinding light
exploded in his brain as the words sank in.
With crystal clarity he knew the answer! He
laughed harshly.
Winters stared at him with mild surprise.
"What's bit yuh, Dan'l?"
But Matson was completely oblivious, busily
buttressing the flash of inspiration. Sure—that
was the only thing it could be! Those aliens
were working on a program—one that was grimly
recognizable once his attention was focussed
on it. There must have been considerable pressure
to make them move so fast that a short-lived
human could see what they were planning—but
Matson had a good idea of what was driving
them, an atomic war that could decimate the
world would be all the spur they'd need!
They weren't playing for penny ante stakes.
They didn't want to exploit Mankind. They
didn't give a damn about Mankind! To them
humanity was merely an unavoidable nuisance—something
to be pushed aside, to be made harmless and
dependent, and ultimately to be quietly and
bloodlessly eliminated. Man's civilization
held nothing that the star men wanted, but
man's planet—that was a different story!
Truly the aliens were right when they considered
man a savage. Like the savage, man didn't
realize his most valuable possession was his
land!
The peaceful penetration was what had fooled
him. Mankind, faced with a similar situation,
and working from a position of overwhelming
strength would have reacted differently. Humanity
would have invaded and conquered. But the
aliens had not even considered this obvious
step.
Why?
The answer was simple and logical. They couldn't!
Even though their technology was advanced
enough to exterminate man with little or no
loss to themselves, combat and slaughter must
be repulsive to them. It had to be. With their
telepathic minds they would necessarily have
a pathologic horror of suffering. They were
so highly evolved that they simply couldn't
fight—at least not with the weapons of humanity.
But they could use the subtler weapon of altruism!
And even more important—uncontrolled emotions
were poison to them. In fact Ixtl had admitted
it back in Seattle. The primitive psi waves
of humanity's hates, lusts, fears, and exultations
must be unbearable torture to a race long
past such animal outbursts. That was—must
be—why they were moving so fast. For their
own safety, emotion had to be damped out of
the human race.
Matson had a faint conception of what the
aliens must have suffered when they first
surveyed that crowd at International Airport.
No wonder they looked so strangely immobile
at that first contact! The raw emotion must
have nearly killed them! He felt a reluctant
stir of admiration for their courage, for
the dedicated bravery needed to face that
crowd and establish a beachhead of tranquility.
Those first few minutes must have had compressed
in them the agonies of a lifetime!
Matson grinned coldly. The aliens were not
invulnerable. If Mankind could be taught to
fear and hate them, and if that emotion could
be focussed, they never again would try to
take this world. It would be sheer suicide.
As long as Mankind kept its emotions it would
be safe from this sort of invasion. But the
problem was to teach Mankind to fear and hate.
Shock would do it, but how could that shock
be applied?
The thought led inevitably to the only possible
conclusion. The aliens would have to be killed,
and in such a manner as to make humanity fear
retaliation from the stars. Fear would unite
men against a possible invasion, and fear
would force men to reach for the stars to
forestall retribution.
Matson grinned thinly. Human nature couldn't
have changed much these past years. Even with
master psychologists like the Aztlans operating
upon it, changes in emotional pattern would
require generations. He sighed, looked into
the anxious face of Seth Winters, and returned
to the reality of the desert night. His course
was set. He knew what he had to do.
He laid the rifle across his knees and opened
the little leather box sewn to the side of
the guncase. With precise, careful movements
he removed the silencer and fitted it to the
threaded muzzle of the gun. The bulky, blue
excrescence changed the rifle from a thing
of beauty to one of murder. He looked at it
distastefully, then shrugged and stretched
out on the mattress, easing the ugly muzzle
through the hole in the brickwork. It wouldn't
be long now....
He glanced upward through the window above
him at the Weather Bureau instruments atop
a nearby building. The metal cups of the anemometer
hung motionless against the metallic blue
of the sky. No wind stirred in the deep canyons
of the city streets as the sun climbed in
blazing splendor above the towering buildings.
He moved a trifle, shifting the muzzle of
the gun until it bore upon the sidewalks.
The telescopic sight picked out faces from
the waiting crowd with a crystal clarity.
Everywhere was the same sheeplike placidity.
He shuddered, the sights jumping crazily from
one face to another,—wondering if he had
misjudged his race, if he had really come
too late, if he had underestimated the powers
of the Aztlans.
Far down the avenue, an excited hum came to
his ears, and the watching crowd stirred.
Faces lighted and Matson sighed. He was not
wrong. Emotion was only suppressed, not vanished.
There was still time!
The aliens were coming. Coming to cap the
climax of their pioneer work, to drive the
first nail in humanity's coffin! For the first
time in history man's dream of the brotherhood
of man was close to reality.
And he was about to destroy it! The irony
bit into Matson's soul, and for a moment he
hesitated, feeling the wave of tolerance and
good will rising from the street below. Did
he have the right to destroy man's dream?
Did he dare tamper with the will of the world?
Had he the right to play God?
The parade came slowly down the happy street,
a kaleidoscope of color and movement that
approached and went past in successive waves
and masses. This was a gala day, this eve
of world union! The insigne of the UN was
everywhere. The aliens had used the organization
to further their plans and it was now all-powerful.
A solid bank of UN flags led the van of delegates,
smiling and swathed in formal dress, sitting
erect in their black official cars draped
with the flags of native lands that would
soon be furled forever if the aliens had their
way.
And behind them came the Aztlans!
They rode together, standing on a pure white
float, a bar of dazzling white in a sea of
color. All equal, their inhumanly beautiful
faces calm and remote, the Aztlans rode through
the joyful crowd. There was something inspiring
about the sight and for a moment, Matson felt
a wave of revulsion sweep through him.
He sighed and thumbed the safety to "off",
pulled the cocking lever and slid the first
cartridge into the breech. He settled himself
drawing a breath of air into his lungs, letting
a little dribble out through slack lips, catching
the remainder of the exhalation with closed
glottis. The sights wavered and steadied upon
the head of the center alien, framing the
pale noble face with its aureole of golden
hair. The luminous eyes were dull and introspective
as the alien tried to withdraw from the emotions
of the crowd. There was no awareness of danger
on the alien's face. At 600 yards he was beyond
their esper range and he was further covered
by the feelings of the crowd. The sights lowered
to the broad chest and centered there as Matson's
spatulate fingers took up the slack in the
trigger and squeezed softly and steadily.
A coruscating glow bathed the bodies of three
of the aliens as their tall forms jerked to
the smashing impact of the bullets! Their
metallic tunics melted and sloughed as inner
fires ate away the fragile garments that covered
them! Flexible synthetic skin cracked and
curled in the infernal heat, revealing padding,
wirelike tendons, rope-like cords of flexible
tubing and a metallic skeleton that melted
and dripped in white hot drops in the heat
of atomic flame—
"Robots!" Matson gasped with sudden blinding
realization. "I should have known! No wonder
they seemed inhuman. Their builders would
never dare expose themselves to the furies
and conflicts of our emotionally uncontrolled
world!"
One of the aliens crouched on the float, his
four-fingered hands pressed against a smoking
hole in his metal tunic. The smoke thickened
and a yellowish ichor poured out bursting
into flame on contact with the air. The fifth
alien, Ixtl, was untouched, standing with
hands widestretched in a gesture that at once
held command and appeal.
Matson reloaded quickly, but held his fire.
The swarming crowd surrounding the alien was
too thick for a clear shot and Matson, with
sudden revulsion, was unwilling to risk further
murder in a cause already won. The tall, silver
figure of the alien winced and shuddered,
his huge body shaking like a leaf in a storm!
His builders had never designed him to withstand
the barrage of focussed emotion that was sweeping
from the crowd. Terror, shock, sympathy, hate,
loathing, grief, and disillusionment—the
incredible gamut of human feelings wrenched
and tore at the Aztlan, shorting delicate
circuits, ripping the poised balance of his
being as the violent discordant blasts lanced
through him with destroying energy! Ixtl's
classic features twisted in a spasm of inconceivable
agony, a thin curl of smoke drifted from his
distorted tragic mask of a mouth as he crumpled,
a pitiful deflated figure against the whiteness
of the float.
The cries of fear and horror changed their
note as the aliens' true nature dawned upon
the crowd. Pride of flesh recoiled as the
swarming humans realized the facts. Revulsion
at being led by machines swelled into raw
red rage. The mob madness spread as an ominous
growl began rising from the streets.
A panicky policeman triggered it, firing his
Aztlan-built shock tube into the forefront
of the mob. A dozen men fell, to be trampled
by their neighbors as a swarm of men and women
poured over the struggling officer and buried
him from sight. Like wildfire, pent-up emotions
blazed out in a flame of fury. The parade
vanished, sucked into the maelstrom and torn
apart. Fists flew, flesh tore, men and women
screamed in high bitter agony as the mob clawed
and trampled in a surging press of writhing
forms that filled the street from one line
of buildings to the other.
Half-mad with triumph, drunk with victory,
shocked at the terrible form that death had
taken in coming to Ixtl, Matson raised his
clenched hands to the sky and screamed in
a raw inhuman voice, a cry in which all of
man's violence and pride were blended! The
spasm passed as quickly as it came, and with
its passing came exhaustion. The job was done.
The aliens were destroyed. Tomorrow would
bring reaction and with it would come fear.
Tomorrow or the next day man would hammer
out a true world union, spurred by the thought
of a retribution that would never come. Yet
all that didn't matter. The important thing—the
only important thing—was preserved. Mankind
would have to unite for survival—or so men
would think—and he would never disillusion
them. For this was man's world, and men were
again free to work out their own destiny for
better or for worse, without interference,
and without help. The golden dream was over.
Man might fail, but if he did he would fail
on his own terms. And if he succeeded—Matson
looked up grimly at the shining sky....
Slowly he rose to his feet and descended to
the raging street below.
