Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (111 page)

The four-thirty special for London received the first score of copies, bore them safely across the Atlantic, delivered them at their destination. The pilot and copilot had been told that the sealed cans contained microfilms. They thought they were microfilms, and thus anything—or any things—which may have been interested in their thoughts were successfully deceived into believing the same.

About three-quarters of the reproductions had been received by the time zero hour arrived. Of the missing quarter, a few had suffered natural and unforeseeable delays, while the remainder represented the first casualties in the new and eerie conflict. The speech could have been made quite easily by the President in person, over a nationwide hook-up. And just as easily the speech could have been defeated at utterance of the first sentence, by death lurking at one microphone. Now, in effect, there were fifteen hundred Presidents ready for fifteen hundred microphones so completely scattered that some waited in America consulates and embassies in Europe, Asia and South America, some were ready on solitary islands in the Pacific, several were aboard warships far out at sea, away from human—and Viton—haunts. Ten were located in Arctic wastes where harmless flickers in the sky were the only Vitonesque phenomena.

At seven o’clock in the morning in the eastern states, at noon in Great Britain, and at equivalent times elsewhere, the news splashed over the front pages of old-fashioned papers, glowed into telenews screens, stood out starkly on stereocine screens, blared from loudspeakers, bawled over public address systems, was shouted from the housetops.

A low, incredulous cry of anguish came from the world of mankind, a wail that grew with growing belief and built itself into a shrill, hysterical scream. The voice of humanity expressed its shock, each race according to its emotional trend, each nation to its creed, each man to his glands. In New York, a frightened mob filled Times Square to suffocation point, surging, shouting, shaking fists at sullen skies, driven bellicose by peril in the manner of cornered rats. In Central Park, a seemlier crowd prayed, sang hymns, screamed for Jesus, protested, wept.

Piccadilly, London, was messed with the blood of forty suicides that morning. Trafalgar Square permitted no room for traffic, even its famous lions being concealed beneath a veritable flood of half-crazy human figures, some howling for the august presence of George the Eighth, others bellowing orders at the Lord God Almighty. And while the lions crouched even lower than humanity was crouching, and surrounding white faces were staring sweatily at wages-of-sin-is-death orators, Nelson’s Column broke at its base, leaned over, propped itself for one tremendous second against another column of shrieks, fell and crushed three hundred. Emotion welled to the heavens, bright, clear, thirst-quenching emotion!

Mohammedans embraced Christianity that morning, and Christians became Mohammedans, Buddhists, boozers . . . anything. The churches swapped inmates with the bordellos and the asylums eventually gained from both. While many of the sinful made haste to bathe themselves in holy water, the pure did some mind-diverting wallowing in iniquity. Each according to his lights, but all a little unbalanced. Every one a Viton-cow satisfactorily stimulated to over-swollen udders!

But the news was out despite every attempt to prevent it, despite various obstacles to its broadcasting. Not all newspapers had acceded to official requests that their front pages be devoted to the authorized script. Many asserted their journalistic independence—or their proprietors’ dimwitted obstinacy—by distorting the copy with which they had been provided, lending in humor or horror according to their individual whims, thus maintaining the time-honored freedom of gross misrepresentation which is the freedom of the press. A few flatly refused to print such obvious balderdash. Some mentioned it editorially as a manifest election stunt for which they were not going to fall. Others loyally tried to comply, and failed.

The New York Times
came out with a belated edition stating that its early morning issue had not appeared because “of sudden casualties among our staff.” Ten had died in the
Times
office that morning. The
Kansas City Star
came out on time loudly demanding to know what sort of a dollar-snatching gag Washington had cooked up this time. Its staff survived.

In Elmira, the editor of the
Gazette
sat dead at his desk, the television-printed data from Washington still in his cold grasp. His assistant editor had tried to take the sheet, and had slumped on the floor beside him. A third sprawled near the door, a foolhardy reporter who had dropped even as his mind conceived the notion that it was up to him to fulfill the duty for which his superiors had given their lives.

Radio Station WTTZ blew itself to hell at the exact moment that its microphone became energized and its operator opened his mouth to give the news which was to be followed by the presidential speech.

Later in the week, it was estimated that seventeen radio stations in the United States and sixty-four in the entire world had been wrecked mysteriously, by supernormal means, in time to prevent the broadcasting of revelations considered undesirable by others. The press, too, suffered heavily, newspaper offices collapsing at the critical moment, being disrupted by inexplicable explosions, or losing one by one the informed members of their staffs.

Yet the world was told, warned, so well had the propagandists prepared beforehand. Even invisibles could not be everywhere at once. The news was out, and a select few felt safe, but the rest of the world had the jitters.

Bill Graham sat with Lieutenant Wohl and Professor Jurgens in the latter’s apartment on Lincoln Parkway. They were looking through the evening editions of every newspaper they’d been able to acquire.

“The reaction is pretty well what one might expect,” commented Jurgens. “Some mixture! Look at this!”

He handed over a copy of
The Boston Transcript.
The paper made no mention of powers invisible, but contented itself with a three-column editorial ferociously attacking the government.

“We are not concerned,” swore the
Transcript's
lead writer, “with the question of whether this morning’s morbid scoop is true or untrue, but we are concerned with the means by which it was put across. When the government exercises powers that it has never been given by mandate of the people, and practically confiscates the leading pages of every newspaper in the country, we perceive the first step toward a dictatorial regime. We see a leaning toward methods that will never for one moment be tolerated in this free democracy, and that will meet with our uncompromising opposition so long as we retain a voice with which to speak.”

“The problem that arises,” said Graham, seriously, “is that of whose views this paper represents. We can assume that the person who wrote it did so with complete honesty and in good faith, but are those opinions really his own, or are they notions which cunningly have been insinuated into his mind, notions which he has accepted as his own, believes to be his own?”

“Ah, there lies the peril!” agreed Jurgens.

“Since all our data points to the fact that the Vitons sway opinions any way they want them, subtly guiding the thoughts that best suit their own purposes, it is well-nigh impossible to determine which views are naturally and logically evolved, which implanted.”

“It is difficult,” Jurgens conceded. “It gives them a tremendous advantage, for they can maintain their hold over humanity by keeping the world divided in spite of all our own attempts to unite it. From now on, every time a troublemaker shoots his trap, we’ve got to ask ourselves a question of immense significance; who’s talking now?” He put a long, delicate finger on the article under discussion. “Here is the first psychological counterstroke, the first blow at intended unity—the crafty encouragement of suspicion that somewhere lurks a threat of dictatorship. The good old smear-technique. Millions fall for it every time. Millions will always fall so long as they would rather believe a lie than doubt a truth.”

“Quite.’’ Graham scowled at the sheet while Wohl watched him thoughtfully.
“The Cleveland Plain Dealer
takes another stand,” Jurgens observed. He held up the sheet, showing a two-inch streamer. “A nice example of how journalism serves the public with the facts. This boy fancies himself on satire. He makes sly references to that vodka party in Washington a fortnight ago, and insists on referring to the Vitons as ‘Graham’s Ghouls.’ As for you, he thinks you’re selling something, probably sunglasses.”

“Damn!” said Graham, annoyedly. He caught Wohl’s chuckle, glared him into silence.

“Don’t let it worry you,” Jurgens went on. ‘When you’ve studied mass psychology as long as I’ve done you’ll cease to be surprised at anything.” He tapped the paper. “This was to be expected. From the journalistic viewpoint, truth exists to be raped. The only time facts are respected is when it’s expedient to print them. Otherwise, it’s smart to feed the public a lot of guff. It makes the journalist feel good; it gives him a sense of superiority over the suckers.”

“They won’t feel so darned superior when they’ve got an eyeful.”

“No, I guess they won’t.” Jurgens mused a moment, then said, “I don’t wish to seem melodramatic, but would you be good enough to tell me whether any of these Vitons are near us at this moment?”

“There are none,” Graham assured him. His wide, glistening eye gazed through the window. “I can see several floating over distant roofs, and there are two poised high above the other end of the road, but there are none near here.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Jurgens’ features relaxed. He used his hand as a comb, passing thin fingers through long, white hair, smiled quietly as he noted that Wohl’s face also expressed relief. “What I’m curious about is the problem of what is to be done next. The world now knows the worst, but what is it going to do about the matter—what
can
it do?”

“The world must not only know the worst, but also see it in all its grim and indisputable actuality,” said Graham, earnestly. “The government has practically co-opted the big chemical companies in its plan of campaign. The first step will be to put on the market large and cheap supplies of the materials cited in Bjornsen’s formula, so that the general public may see the Vitons for themselves.”

“Where does that get us?”

“It gets us a big step toward the inevitable show-down. We must have a united public opinion to back us in the coming fight, and I’m not talking parochially, either. I mean united the world over. All our numerous squabbling cliques, political, religious, or whatever they may be, will have to drop their differences in the face of this greater peril and unitedly support us in future efforts to get rid of it once and for all.”

“I guess so,” admitted Jurgens, doubtfully, “but—”

Graham went on, “Moreover, we must gather as much information concerning the Vitons as it may be possible to obtain. That is because what we know about them to date is appallingly little. We need more data, we need it in quantities that can be supplied only by thousands, maybe millions of observers. At the earliest possible moment we must counterbalance the Vitons’ enormous advantage in having an ages-old understanding of human beings, and gain an equally good comprehension of them. Know thine enemy! It is futile to scheme, or oppose, until we can make an accurate estimate of what we’re up against.”

“Perfectly sensible,” Jurgens conceded. “I see no hope whatever for humanity until it has rid itself of this burden. But you know what opposition means?’

“What?” Graham encouraged.

“Civil war!” His distinguished features grave, the psychologist wagged a finger to emphasize his words. “You will not get a chance to strike one miserable blow at these Vitons unless first you’ve managed to conquer and subdue half the world. Humanity will be divided against itself—they’ll see to that. The half that remains under Viton influence will have to be overcome by the other half, in fact you may have to exterminate them not only to the last man, but also the last woman and child.”

“I can’t see them being that dopey,” Wohl put in.

“So long as people insist on thinking with their glands, their bellies, their wallets or anything but their brains, they’ll be dopey enough for anything,” declared Jurgens, fiercely. ‘They’ll fall for a well-organized, persistent and emotional line of propaganda and make suckers of themselves every time. Remember those Japs? Early last century we called them civilized, poetic; we sold them scrap iron and machine tools. A decade later we were calling them dirty yellow bellies. In 1980 we were loving them and kissing them and calling them the only democrats in Asia. By the end of this century, they may be hell’s devils again. Same with the Russians, cursed, cheered, cursed, cheered—all according to when the public was ordered to curse or cheer. Any expert liar can stir up the masses and persuade them to love this mob or hate that mob, as suits the convenience of whoever’s doing the stirring-up. If ordinary but unscrupulous men can divide and rule, so can Vitons!” He turned from Wohl to Graham. “Mark my words, young man, your first and most formidable obstacle will be provided by millions of emotional dimwits among your fellow beings.”

“I fear you may be right,” admitted Graham, uneasily.

Jurgens was right, dead right. Bjornsen’s formula was marketed a mere seven days, in immense quantities, and the first blow fell early in the morning of the eighth day. It fell with thunderous vim which humanity felt like a psychic blast.

An azure sky splashed with pink by the rising sun spewed two thousand thin streamers of flame from the invisibility of its upper reaches. The streamers curved downward, whitening with condensation. Thickening as they lost altitude, they resolved themselves into mighty back-blasts of strange, yellow stratosphere planes.

Below lay Seattle, a few early citizens on its broad streets, a few wispy columns of smoke rising from stoked furnaces. Many amazed eyes turned to the sky, many still-sleeping heads tossed on their pillows as the aerial armada howled across Puget Sound, swooped over Seattle’s roofs.