The Mouse That Roared (14 page)

All this detail, however, bizarre though it was and excellent newspaper copy in normal times, was largely lost to the Press and the general public in the spate of other news concerning the great alert. The first two days’ issues of the east coast Press were devoted to overall coverage of the exercise, to interviews with officials, all of whom chorused that the alert had proved to the hilt the capacity of the people to respond correctly in time of an emergency, to reporting such incidents --somewhat in contradiction of the official statements--as the looting of the train on the West Side subway, the singing in the underground stations, the excellent work of the volunteer defence workers, and stories of children, mothers, and fathers who had performed acts of fortitude or whimsy during the exercise.

A Civil Defence worker who had reunited a boy in the Bronx with his lost dog came in for special commendation. Another who had supplied three gallons of ice-cream to the | inmates of a Queen’s orphanage was a hero for twenty-four hours. A child born in the basement of the Waldorf-Astoria was christened Waldorf Blitz Cunningham; its parents were made guests of the hotel for a month and showered with ten thousand dollars’ worth of layettes until the mother wrote a letter thanking everybody and begging mothers not to send any more diapers or baby-food because there was nowhere to store the quantity already received.

As a matter almost of duty, the Press, with the exception of the
New York Daily News,
united to assure the public that there had been no invasion of men from Mars in flying saucers, and deplored those rumour-mongers who had come close to jeopardizing the success of the exercise by spreading such a story.

When he read this, Tom Mulligan, leader of Civil Defence Section 4
--
300, sub-section 3, decontamination, who had now been relieved of his duties for turning in a report of an invasion from space, collected two or three of his former section men together. He made a short and bitter address to them, in the privacy of his own home, in which he pointed out that they were being made to look like fools by higher officials of the Civil Defence Organization, who refused to believe that they had met with, and been attacked by, men clad in metal suits during the great alert.

“Now,” said Tom. “Answer me plain. Did you or did you not see a bunch of guys on Broadway dressed up in some kind of shiny clothes?”

The men of his section agreed that they undoubtedly had.

“And,” continued Tom, “didn’t they throw some kind of a ray or something at us that whistled when it went by?”

There was some disagreement as to whether the weapon had been a ray, but none whatever that something had been thrown at them which whistled as it went by.

“As patriotic Americans, then,” said Tom, “it’s our duty to get the facts before the public. It’s my belief that these invaders from Mars”--nothing would shake his opinion that the men in shiny suits came from outer space--”are still around. And they’re probably killing people right and left without anybody knowing it. The brass”--and the way he said the word was a full indictment of all officialdom--”is trying to cover up. They don’t want the people to know. They don’t want ‘em to know that they failed in trying to keep the spacemen out. But we’ve got to get the facts out. And the way to do it, since nobody will listen to us, is go down to the
Daily News
and tell them about it. They’ll print the truth--promise to do it right on one of their pages.”

The others, after being deprived of their jobs in Civil Defence, and thrust unceremoniously, just like civilians, into the subway shelter, were not enthusiastic. One argued that if the brass was covering up, they might have a good reason for doing so. Another said that if they hadn’t been believed by their own outfit, there wasn’t much likelihood that they’d be believed by a newspaper. But Tom was not to be so readily blocked. He said he knew someone on the
Daily News,
an important man, and he would listen to them and see that their story got into the newspaper.

Tom was stretching the facts a little when he said he knew someone of importance on the
Daily News.
The person he knew was a district circulation manager for whom he had sold papers on commission for six or seven months. He was hard to get to, but Tom persisted, and after he had told him his story, the district circulation manager asked one question.

“Did you say this happened up town?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Hundredth and Broadway.”

“Could do with a few more sales around the West Hundreds,” the circulation manager said, half to himself. “Tell you what, I’ll call the city editor and tell him you’re coming down. Give him that men from Mars angle strong. That’s pretty good: MARTIANS LAND UP TOWN. Worth an extra, if he’ll go for it. Remember you got to give him your name and be quoted as a defence worker. Right?”

“Right,” said Tom.

Down he went with his three section workers, considerably heartened, to the
Daily News
office on the East Side. They saw the city editor for two fast minutes and he seemed almost angry that they hadn’t got any pictures. He turned them over to a reporter, a thin, earnest, bespectacled young man, who asked so many questions on minor details that Tom had a suspicion he had been planted in the
Daily News
office by the very brass who were out to keep the story under wraps. But he answered all the questions he could, and signed a broad statement covering the story. The men who were with him signed the statement too. Then they went home.

“To-morrow, it will be all over the front page,” Tom said.

It wasn’t.

The reporter turned in his story, and the city editor read it through, torn between caution and exultation. He wanted to run it right then, but years of double-checking on statements held him back. He compromised by taking it into the managing editor, who gave it a fast run through.

“These guys swear to it,” the city editor said. “We’ve checked their credentials and they’re legit. They were with the Civil Defence Organization. And they did turn in a report of men from Mars. But the C.D.O. says they were drunk and lost their decontamination suits and that’s all there is to it. Swell story if we could figure out a way to run it without going out on a limb.”

The managing editor put his feet on the desk and contemplated the toes of his shoes.

“ ‘Member that story
Tribune
ran other day in shirt-tail about funny flag on top of customs shed?” he asked. He had a habit of talking fast and leaving out what he regarded as superfluous syllables, articles, and conjunctions.

“Yep,” said the city editor.

“Funny thing,” continued the managing editor. “Been trying to get Snippett for coupla days for statement. Can’t find him. Found car though.” He took his feet suddenly off the desk and leaned forward in his chair. “Car’s in police garage all busted up with hole in back seat. Get couple best men and turn them on it. Want story about disappearance Civil Defence Chief during alert, but car found all bust up.”

“What about this men from Mars stuff?” the city editor asked.

“Throw them in too,” said the managing editor, putting his feet back on the desk. “Here’s what we got. General gone. Strange flag over customs house. General’s car busted up like he’d been in fight. Defence worker reports invasion by men in shiny suits. Another thing, door Columbia bust open and some kind of steel shirt found on end battering ram. All adds up: MARTIANS INVADE MANHATTAN. DEFENCE CHIEF CAPTIVE. Let me see story when it’s all in. And get this guy and his men back. Keep ‘em hid away till we’re out on street. They’re ace in hole.”

The city editor bustled out and beckoned two reporters over to his desk. They had a quick conference, were joined by two photographers, and left the building.

“Mr. President,” said the Secretary of Defence, “I asked for this private interview because I have a report to make which is almost unbelievable, but which is none the less true. It is so incredible a matter that it is hard to know exactly where to begin.”

“Sit down,” said the President, with a smile, “and don’t bother about where you are going to begin. Just tell me what you have on your mind.”

“Well,” said the Secretary, “you will forgive me, I hope, if I seem to over emphasize the fact that every word I have to say is the truth. I stress this because I realize you will have great difficulty in crediting what follows. But I have not come to you before fully checking and re-checking all my conclusions.”

The President gave him a puzzled look. “Go ahead,” he said, quietly.

The Secretary swallowed hard. He was obviously under considerable strain and having difficulty in keeping his voice steady.

“Mr. President,” he blurted out at length, “we are at war with another nation. We have been at war it would seem for some time, though we didn’t know it. And, furthermore, we have been invaded by an expeditionary force of this nation which attacked New York City during the great alert, and successfully withdrew after achieving its object.

In fact, Mr. President, we are not only at war with this nation, but I believe that this nation has won the war. The United States has, for the first time in its history, been defeated.”

“Good God,” said the President. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No,” said the Secretary of Defence, calmer now that the biggest impact of this report had been delivered. “I am not out of my mind. It’s all horribly true. I did not know that we were at war myself. In fact, I never suspected such a thing until some odd occurrences took place during the alert. At first I did not pay much attention to them. We were all still concerned with assessing the effect of the alert. However, certain remarkable irregularities were, as I say, brought to my attention. I asked the Treasury to let me have the use of two of their best Secret Service men. I requested them to investigate these happenings, to get all the details and background concerning them. Their report shows beyond a quibble that we are at war, that we have been invaded, and that we have in all probability lost the war. This,” he added, almost to himself, “is without a doubt the first war in world history in which Secret Service men had to be employed to find out that a war was going on.”

The President got up from his desk, walked around it and stood before the Secretary of Defence, looking down at him.

“I’m not going to ask any questions about whether you are feeling well, because I believe you are,” he said. “I’m not going to ask whether this is a joke, because I know you have sufficient respect for the office of the President of the United States not to make a mockery of it. Now. Give me the facts. Who is this other nation? What did they do? When did they do it? And why did they do it? And above all, how do you arrive at the conclusion that they have won some kind of secret war with us? I am not aware that we are a conquered nation.”

“Not conquered, Mr. President,” said the Secretary of Defence. “But defeated.” He reached down to the side of his chair and picked up a portfolio. “Can we go over to the desk?” he asked, nervously.

The President nodded curtly and led the way.

The Secretary of Defence opened the portfolio and took out of it a scroll of paper which he unrolled on the desk top.

At the top was a double-headed eagle crest, the eagle saying “Yea” out of one beak and “Nay” out of the other. Below in Old English lettering was the title, “Duchy of Grand Fenwick.”

The President read the document through slowly and aloud. When he came to the final paragraph which ran, “therefore be it
Resolved,
The Duchy of Grand Fenwick, having taken all steps it can to remedy the matter peaceably, does here and now, and by these present, declare that a state of war exists between itself and the United States of America,” he said, solemnly and deliberately, “Damnedest thing I ever heard of.” And he sat down slowly in his chair to stare at his Secretary of Defence.

The two sat looking at each other for perhaps thirty seconds without a word spoken. They both sensed that it was not a time for words. It was, rather, a time to try to capture each other’s thoughts without resort to the use of the voice. But the thoughts were too jumbled. They ranged all the way from the catastrophic to the ridiculous. There was a need to pin them down and make sense of them. The President broke the silence.

“Give me that thing again,” he said. The Secretary gave him the declaration of war by the Duchy of Grand Fenwick and he read it through once more.

“All right,” said the President. “Now where did this come from? I presume that you have checked that it is a legitimate document?”

“I have,” said the Secretary. “And it is. It was found by the Secret Service in the apartment of a clerk named Chester X. Beston, who works in the State Department. To be precise, it was found behind the radiator in his apartment.”

“What the blazes was it doing there?” the President demanded, his face pink with anger.

“It wasn’t really Beston’s fault,” the Secretary replied, hurriedly. “He works in the Central European Division. The document was delivered to him by routine messenger and when he opened it he thought it was just a joke by some of the boys in the Press room. He put it in his pocket, went canoeing that evening, and his canoe tipped over. He put the declaration of war down behind the radiator to dry out and forgot about it. The Secret Service men traced it after uncovering other evidence that we were at war with Grand Fenwick.”

“What other evidence?” the President asked, crisply. The Secretary told him, in short, efficient sentences, the whole story of the reports of an invasion by men from Mars, the appearance in Manhattan of a group of men clad in armour, the disappearance of General Snippett, the finding of his car badly dented, with three others, at Pier 42, and the finding of the banner of Grand Fenwick, flying over the customs shed on the waterfront.

“The Secret Service has checked these details thoroughly and there is no room for doubt that New York was invaded by Grand Fenwick during the alert. Why they should want to capture General Snippett, however, I do not know. I can only presume that his capture was accidental. I had sent him to suppress the rumours of an invasion from Mars which was causing panic in the New York subway. Probably he met with the Fenwick raiders and was taken prisoner. We found, a three-foot arrow embedded in the upholstery of the back seat of his car. Four policemen are also missing. They must have been captured with him.”