When They Come from Space (5 page)

"H-m-m,” I said. “Research into vocational guidance for extraterrestrials, huh? You must have held some powerful jobs in industry to qualify for that!"

"I am a Harvard man,” he answered frigidly. I realized I simply must overcome my provincial West Coast attitude of wanting to see what a man had done in life before I measured his worth.

"Well,” I said judiciously. “That's even better, isn't it?” Apparently the introductions were over. Miss Chase indicated the corridor leading from the workroom to my office, as if to tell me I might enter that way—this time.

"I haven't met the remainder of my staff,” I said, and looked at the young man over in the corner.

"Oh?” Miss Chase looked at me questioningly, and smiled thinly. She had just come to the realization that I had absolutely no sense of protocol or etiquette whatever, and wasn't deliberately offensive. “That's only an N-462.” N-462 stared at me with startled eyes and didn't nod.

"And what do you do here?” I asked.

His surprise seemed blended with horror, and he looked uncertainly toward Miss Chase, as if seeking a protector.

"He is an N-462,” she repeated.

I gathered he was too far down the ladder of protocol to speak to me directly, and that if I had been an experienced government career man I'd have known what an N-462 does. I let it pass.

I walked on down the hallway to my office, went in, and sat down behind my desk. The top of it was clear. There were no mountains of work piled upon it to make me look frantically indispensable to the continuance of the nation.

It told me, plainly, I was expected to build up my own fortress.

I had met my staff. I thought lonesomely, longingly of my staff back at Computer Research; a staff really busy doing necessary things, and at the same time dedicated to keeping my fortress intact for me. Apparently I did not yet have a private secretary. Apparently an official was permitted to choose his own.

Yes, of course, that would be it. And particularly for a bachelor. To make it easier for the F.B.I. to run its customary check on his sex practices. Obviously, too, a large block of jobs would be set aside for the customary hiring of one's wife, his sons and daughters, his grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, his previous milkman, grocery delivery boy, former business partners, the fellows at the club whom he could beat at golf or handball, and maybe that nice gentleman who came past the old hometown house and spoke admiringly of the condition of our lawn.

I would, I must, send for Sara.

I wondered which of my present staff was an undercover agent. Probably Miss Shirley Chase. Her breeding lines were unmistakably Mid-West out of New England, the classic picture of self-appointed conscience for all mankind. I would have to watch my step around Shirley.

And thereby measured the real depth of my ignorance.

For eventually it turned out to be N-462; who wasn't really an N-462 at all. The gaffes that I had already pulled had sown the seeds of doubt in his mind about me. With that slow, patient, inexorable thoroughness of the truly great undercover man, he was to prove me only a Mister Ralph Kennedy, not the Doctor Kennedy at all.

An impostor!

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Of course I was not naïve enough to think that all the men around Washington played the national con-game of using the taxpayers as their own private herd of domestic animals with the same insouciant delight as Dr. Kibbie. His was the true gambler's attitude; that it is more fun to play for high stakes than for low, and not without status value among those who know the game; that sometimes you win, sometimes you lose; but basically you play just because there isn't anything else to do.

Nor were all others of the Dr. Gerald Gaffee stripe; academic theoreticians who had read a few books written vaguely about political science, listened to a few hours of even more vague professorial comments about it, and thought this was what governing a nation was all about.

Nor were the remaining all of that arrested mental development at the level of the twelve-year-old boy which manifests itself as the military mind. Most of my scraps with representatives of the Pentagon in the past were really seated in my disgust, tinged perhaps with a touch of horror, that grown men not only could allow their mental and spiritual development to be arrested at that juvenile age of running in gangs, hero-worshiping, losing one's identity in marching conformity, hiding immature fears and weaknesses behind the bravado of brass and braid; but actually advocated this pitiful deformity as a way of life for others; and, indeed, brought all the weight and power of their massive gang disapproval to bear upon any who wished to outgrow such juvenile levels of value.

I knew there were still others. Not many, of these, for there was not room for many; and the sheer ferocity at this level kept their numbers from multiplying. To these Power was an end in itself, a compulsion, an addiction. Perhaps their need and fright was greatest of all, for only by acquisition of Power could they still their doubts that they were any different from the common domesticated herds of people. Only by applying and directing the aims of Power could they ensure their own security. Only by keeping the herd confined to its accustomed pastures, using their herd at will as does the farmer, could these men be assured theirs was the role of farmer instead of his cattle. It had always been. It did not matter what the surface system of government was called in the fad notions of the time. There are those who milk, and those born to be milked; those who slaughter, and those who line up for the slaughtering.

Perhaps, in the still hours of the night, such men needed defense against an even greater enemy—their own intelligence. For that terrifying question hovered eternally just beyond recognition by their conscious minds, constantly threatened to verbalize itself in an unguarded moment: “What is the purpose of it all? What if there be no more purpose to human existence than to grass, or stone, or louse? How, then, could my ego ascend over others?"

I had not met such men. I did not expect to meet them. One doesn't. I might meet their boys, sometime—congressmen, senators, various administrators. Yes, I would surely meet their boys if I became any kind of threat to their husbandry.

There didn't seem to be much danger of that. Even in this unbelievable fantasy of official Washington, where everybody was Pooh-Bah, I couldn't seem to get into the spirit of things. I was nobody—and I knew it.

And yet...

I had seen how such men and their boys behaved when their counterparts over in Russia had tried to rustle some of their cattle from the pastures, or even scheme to highjack the lot of them—those fat, meaty cattle. I had seen what happened to those who got in the middle of this little private war over who shall milk them.

Now if there were ... aw, ridiculous, of course ... but, say, if there actually were beings who came from the stars; and if there were intentions of taking over the whole pasture and all the cattle in it...

Well!

I am Dr. Ralph Kennedy, Director of the Department of Extraterrestrial Vocational Research, Division of Extraterrestrial Psychology, Bureau of Extraterrestrial Life Research—with the secret mission of keeping them from doing it.

Right there in the middle.

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These two little pieces of the jigsaw puzzle came to my attention much later; too late to be of any use. Although, in all honesty, even had I known these happenings in the Sheridan House, they would have carried no meaning to me. Only through hindsight would I have seen any connection between the reactions of a bellhop and the Black Fleet with the Red Ray. Later, the boys told me of their decision made in Room 842, but had I actually been listening I doubt my reaction would have been much different from that of the bellhop.

Chronologically, however, the puzzle pieces fit in here.

Sheridan House, New York, was a moderately fashionable hotel on Sixty-fourth Street, just off Central Park. The Night Manager, a shade more fashionable than even the hotel, was pleased with the evening. All was serene, and he was at his best in Serenity. There had been no emergencies and no complaints. There had been no indiscretions—none blatant enough, at least, to attract the attention of the vice squad. His nightly report, subtly worded to imply all this was due to his superior control, would please top management.

It was unfortunate that the bellhop had to mar the serenity. It was unfortunate that a hotel had to have bellhops.

In the late, late evening this bellhop shuffled across the lobby from the elevator and showed a pronounced list in his walk. There was a rule, a most stringent rule, that bellhops must not drink on the job, not even to please a lonesome guest, or one who enjoyed causing the lower orders to lose their jobs. The Night Manager pursed his lips ominously and waited behind his hotel desk.

The bellhop leaned forward in his walk and made groping movements with his hands. He wet his lips at short, rhythmic intervals. There were large drops of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes protruded like those of a deep-sea fish suddenly hauled to the surface. When he reached the desk, he leaned his stomach against it and released his breath in a long, slow, fizzing sound.

"Jeez...” he breathed heavily.

The Night Manager stiffened further at this breach of manners, but he withheld reproof in the shocked realization that there was no alcohol in the generous waft of breath which came across the desk.

"Well, what is it?” he demanded. But his curiosity somewhat softened the intended tone of discipline.

The bellhop gulped and swallowed another mouthful of air.

"I—I better go home now."

The Night Manager's right eyebrow arched in skepticism. This was more familiar ground. Bellhops were always finding some reason why they couldn't finish out their shifts on slow, tipless nights.

"Must be my eyes, or my stomach.” the bellhop whispered, awe-stricken. “Yeah, it could be my stomach, couldn't it?"

"How should I know?” the Night Manager asked with asperity. He always found the frank fascination of the lower orders with their viscera disgusting.

"I don't feel so good. Could I—” The bellhop's green tinged face showed that even he was abashed at his own temerity. “Could I sit down somewhere?"

The request was so enormous that the Night Manager found himself nodding in stunned acquiescence toward the sanctuary of his own office, which opened behind the desk. He followed the bellhop into the office and watched him collapse into a chair. Unwillingly, he was impressed.

"What's the story this time?” he asked, and knew that curiosity had become ascendant to disbelief.

The story came out in breathless spurts. A bar-service call from 842. One manhattan, one old-fashioned. He had knocked on the door, quietly because it was getting late. He must have heard the command to enter. Must have heard it, although he couldn't remember hearing it. Anyway he entered. He didn't enter no rooms unless he was asked. Musta been asked.

"All right. All right!” the Night Manager prompted.

One guy was sitting on the edge of the bed. Musta been a special bed, like some guests have to have, because it didn't sag none. He had put the tray of drinks down on the table without looking around for anybody else. He never looked around a room when there was a call for two drinks and only one guy....

"I do not need to be instructed in hotel-service tact.” The Night Manager recaptured his asperity. “Go on,"

"I'm just waitin’ for my tip, see, and this guy's actin’ like he don't know why I'm hangin’ around for. You know the old cheapie routine, and then—It couldn't be my stomach, could it?” the bellhop broke off to plead.

"Never mind! We can do without your stomach."

"The bathroom door opens. I'm expectin’ to see a dame. But this thing comes out."

"What thing?"

"This purple thing. Sort of a purple light in the shape of a whirlwind, or maybe water going down the drain."

"Then you have been drinking after all,” the Night Manager exclaimed in disgust.

"Honest, Mr. Thistlewaite. That's what it looked like. A purple whirlwind. It came floating across the room toward me. I peed my pants, I betcha. I ain't looked to see. Then, all at once, I figgered the gimmick. This was one of them stage magicians, tryin’ out his act on me. I didn't know we booked no show people."

"We don't. We certainly do not,” Mr. Thistlewaite said, with a shudder.

"Well, he wasn't one anyhow. No magician could do what happened next.” He gulped, and his jaw line began to green again.

"For heaven's sake, will you get to the point!"

"This purple whirlwind turned into about four other guys. Just like that! So help me! Next thing I know, it's only one other guy. But it's like a picture that's been exposed four times without moving only a little. One guy, only I could count him four times if you know what I mean."

"I don't. And I don't think you do."

"That's when I got outa there. He can have his lousy tip. Me, I'm sick at my stomach. I'm seein’ things. Maybe it's my stomach, I think. Maybe it's..."

Mr. Thistlewaite breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing to spoil his nice report after all. This was elementary; purely elementary to any student of psychology, and every hotel employee is at least that.

He glanced quickly out into the lobby to make sure that all was well, that no latecomers had stumbled into lobby chairs while they reoriented the swimming, tumbling world enough that they might find their way to the elevator. There were none. All was still serene. He faced the bellhop with a glow of anticipation. Now he could demonstrate why the bellhop was only a bellhop, while he, Mr. Thistlewaite, was a Night Manager.

Reaching far back into the unfortunate lad's Freudian infancy, Mr. Thistlewaite took off with a running start, sprinted through a sophomore psychology class at Columbia, soared through a pocketbook course in hallucination, spread his own theories concerning double brain lobe nonsynchronization and/or nerve synapses breaking circuit and instantaneously reclosing to create illusion of superimposure of memory upon memory; came down to earth again with a few digs about the effects of alcohol upon kidneys creating swimming sensations before the eyes; and broke the running record with dissertation on the shooting-lights effects of cirrhosis of the liver.