Chapter V: Part 5

Mae had heard the news on the radio and TV, of course, and she was pretty well prepared for what I had to tell her--that I was going off into space with the world's big wheels. Naturally she didn't like it, but for a reason I hadn't suspected. She told me about it in the morning over my Pep and eggs.

"It seems to me, Sam, that you've been acting very peculiar ever since you took this new job. And I don't just mean your worry about your new responsibilities. I can understand that. What I don't understand is why you've become so cool towards me."

"Why, honey!" I said, really surprised. "That's not so at all."

"Oh, isn't it! I get the impression that I'm being taken for granted; that I'm supposed to be satisfied with a little pat on the head now and again while you cavort around with your high and mighty new friends. You never take me anywhere any more. Why? Is it because I'm so ugly--so--so--misshapen?"

"Mae!" I was shocked. "Now you cut that right out!"

"Well, sometimes I wonder. Then there's that Linx girl. You never told me about her--and you should have, if there's nothing to hide."

"For heaven's sake, Mae," I said. "Of course there's nothing to hide. Why, you're _jealous_, aren't you?"

"Certainly I'm jealous. Is that so strange? It isn't as if you'd been honest with me and said there was this girl, but that I'm prettier in spite of my condition----"

"Now, Mae," I said. "You are prettier--and it's _because_ of your condition. Who told you about Joy anyway? I'll bet it was that Ann McEachern--she's jealous herself because I've got a good job and her Ian's temporarily out of work. There's nothing about Joy, any more than there is to tell about my three telephones. I never had three telephones before, either."

"Well ..." Mae said. "If you're sure."

"Sure I'm sure. Now you just stop worrying your pretty head about stupid nonsense like that and give me a kiss good-bye. I'll be back by Sunday or Monday." I picked up my bag.

"All right," she said. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to go, but I know you have to. And I feel better knowing _she_ won't be going, either."

I put the bag down again.

"Mae," I said. "Listen, Mae."

She burst into tears.

"Now, Mae!"

"She _is_ going!" Mae sobbed. "Oh-h-h!"

"Yes, she is. And so is the President, and so are several prime ministers and premiers and that imbecile Addison Madison and Mox and protocol officers and the Secretary-General and a whole gaggle of Monolithians. For Pete's sake, Mae! This is probably the most important conference ever held in the history of man, not a week end at Atlantic City!"

It took me half an hour to calm her down and get away. I was much lower in my mind by then and not at all convinced that Mae understood, though she had put on a brave face.

* * * * *

Joy, the object of my wife's concern, was waiting for me at the office with a new crisis.

"Sam," she said, "I tried to get you at home, but you'd left."

"You mean you talked to Mae?"

"Yes. She's sweet. We had a nice chat."

I groaned. "You'd better get her back for me. Never mind; I'll get her later. What's the matter?"

"The press is coming, too."

"That's impossible! We'd have to take at least one from every country represented. There isn't room."

"Yes there is. The Monolithians provided another ship. I've got the list drawn up. All you have to do is check it over."

"All right. Let me see it."

They were all there: AP and UPI, representing a North American press pool; radio and TV men, magazine writers, Reuters, France Presse, Tass, Press Trust of India, New China News and so forth. Somebody had exerted the influence of the host country and worked in such supernumeraries as the Voice of America, World Wide, Continental Broadcasting and our old friend Clyde B. Fitchburn. I was glad to see Stew Macon's name next to WW's.

"Fine," I said, initialing the list and handing it back to Joy. "When do we leave? Same time?"

"Yes. Noon by helicopter from the back lawn."

"Good. You all ready yourself, Joy?"

"Yop. Got my toothbrush, wash-'n'-dry undies and spare lipstick." She gave me a wink I didn't entirely fathom and went into her own office, saying, "Better call your wife, now."

I dialed our Bethesda number and talked to Mae for about five minutes. You can say a lot in that time, but for the life of me all I could remember of Mae's conversation was, "I love you and I know you love me. I'm sorry I made that fuss about Joy Linx. We had a nice chat. I think she's sweet."

I went out to the helicopter a very confused man.

* * * * *

At Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland we transferred from the helicopter to two space ships. The helicopters had been jam-packed, but there was room to spare on the ships.

I had a cabin next to the President's suite, and Joy's was next to mine. World Wide, the Voice of America and Continental shared one across the corridor, but the AP, Reuters and the other independent agencies were on the second ship, fuming, I'm sure, at the discrimination--especially since the British, French and German summitters were on ours. Presumably there was going to be a sort of sub-summit conference en route.

I had a big question that I wanted answered before the press got at me and, as soon as we were settled, I knocked at the President's door.

"Come in," Gov said. "Oh, hello, Sam. What's up?"

I asked my question: "Who represents the Monolithians?"

"Shut the door, Sam, and sit down. I can answer that several ways. One, by saying they all represent each other, like bees in a hive or ants in a hill--a sort of group intelligence with nobody's thinking very far out of line from anybody else's. Two, by saying their big wheel at the moment is that Addison Madison, or Frij, fellow, a more insulting parody of an American Earthman than I could have imagined possible. Three, by saying I haven't the faintest idea who they'll produce when they get us to Ultra--quite possibly someone who's never been to Earth at all. Any other questions?"

"Yes, sir, if you don't mind. What are you and the Big Three Europeans going to discuss before you get to Ultra?"

"I frankly don't know, son, but I can make a guess. We'll probably have a few drinks and talk about the good old days when all we had to worry about was the Russian or the Chinese menace."

I started to interrupt, but Gov held up a hand. "I know you can't put that in a communiqué. All right, you can say we had a frank and wide-ranging exchange of views and vowed to take any steps, consistent with honor, that would advance the cause of international and interplanetary peace. That ought to be diplomatic and obfuscatory enough for anybody."

I grinned. "Yes, sir. The cast may change, but never the language."

Gov smiled back, but with an effort.

"Better get back to your cabin now and batten down," he said. "I understand a Monolithian blast-off is a lot kinder to the kidneys than anything our astronauts had to go through, but it's still no bed of nasturtiums. The things they expect an old boy to put up with for his country.... I'm glad I've taken my last oath of office."

I left the President settling down into his padded couch and went to my own.

The blast-off was a short nightmare of vibration and pressure. Then it was over. There was a moment of nauseous weightlessness before the artificial gravity took hold and a soothing chime sounded which, we'd been told, meant we could get up and move about normally.

My door opened and Stew Macon started to come in. He changed his mind when he saw the British Prime Minister, the French President and the German Chancellor go by on their way to Gov's suite. But Stew was back soon.

"They won't talk," he said. "I didn't really think they would."

"Never mind," I told him. "I've got it all here."

"What they're going to say?"

"What they will have officially said. It's not very much."

"Let me have it now. I'll put it out under embargo."

"No you won't. You'll get it after they come out and I've radioed it to the boys in the other ship. I don't want them any sorer at us than they are already."

Stew looked hurt. "I thought we were pals."

"Pals-schmals, this is official business. Why don't you go up to the bridge and see who's driving? That ought to make a dandy feature."

"Continental's doing that on tape. They're going to fill me in later."

"What's the Voice doing?"

"Rehashing the AP and Reuters," Stew said disgustedly. "I tell you, this being subsidized is for the birds. You're further away from the news than anybody else."

"True," I said. "And if I were still with WW I'd complain."

"Yeah? To who?"

"To the Presidential Press Secretary, for instance."

"That's you. A big help you are."

"Them's the conditions that prevail."

"Funny man," Stew said. "Jimmy Durante."

There was a knock on my door and Joy Linx came in.

"Hello, men," she said. "How are the old space voyagers?"

"Nuts," Stew said. "I've had bigger thrills on the Staten Island ferry."

"Sam, I've got the radioteletype set up for the communiqué. Want to check it out?"

"Sure." We all went into her office-cabin.

"Just the one machine," Joy said. "The press ship is tuned in and drop copies go to WW, Continental and the Voice here."

"Fine." I sat down and typed:

KENT HERE. TESTING.

The reply was: WHIRLPOOL HERE. GA.

"Whirlpool?" I asked Joy. "What have they got, a sponsor?"

She laughed. "It's their code name. It stands for World Press Pool."

"Oh." I typed:

WESTERN BIG FOUR BEGAN SHIPBOARD SUBSUMMIT TALKS AT 1607 EDT. EXPECT TO HAVE BRIEF COMMUNIQUE SOON. ALL FOR NOW.

ROGER, the reply came: OVER AND OUT.

"Incurious bunch," Stew said. "Don't they have any questions?"

"I guess they prefer not to be confused by our meager facts. Makes it easier for them to interview each other and bat out learned think-pieces."

* * * * *

The Western Big Four ended their conference, or whatever it was, and Gov called me to say I could release the communiqué. I tried to get him to elaborate on it, or at least tell me off the record what they'd really discussed, but he refused. Gov sounded tired and irritable.

I put the communiqué on the teletype to the other ship and told them there was nothing else at the moment. Again there was a surprising lack of curiosity from the free press. They asked a couple of routine questions and I answered them and shut down the machine. I was beginning to feel rebuked and useless.

"Do they have a bar on this boat?" I asked Joy, who was filing away a copy of the uninformative communiqué in an impressive leather-bound folder labeled in gold: MONOLITHIA-ULTRA.

"Well now," she said, "I'm glad you asked me that question. Yes, as a matter of fact. And would you be after offering to buy me a drink?"

"I most delightedly would," I said. "Or two or three."

Relaxed now at the bar, with Joy on the stool beside me and a tall drink on the mahogany, I had time to think.

Joy said, "A penny for your thoughts."

I roused myself from my reverie and said, "I was just wondering what's going to be the outcome of all this."

"A good wonder," she said. "I guess it's worth a penny. Frankly, I don't worry much about it. Assuming, of course, that we all come through it with our health, happiness and honor intact."

The Monolithian bartender was in front of us suddenly. He smiled.

There was a snort from our right. It was a man of about sixty who was drinking a Pernod.

"Ah, a philosopher," Joy said.

The man picked up his drink, admired its cloudy color and took a sip before replying. "I am indeed," he said. "My eyes are wide open and unfilmed."

"_Whose_ eyes?" I said.

"Mine--the eyes of Clyde B. Fitchburn, student of men."

"Fitchburn!" I said. "The renowned crier of doom?"

"The _former_ crier of doom," he said placidly. "Student of men and current employee of Monolithia. My cries are stilled while I remain on the payroll. What's your excuse, Mr. Kent? And yours, Miss Linx?"

I didn't like his tone. "Now look--" I started to say, but Joy put her hand on my arm.

"He's got a point," she said. "Aren't we all on the payroll?"

I had to admit in my secret mind that this was a valid point. But I said, "Let's leave us out of it. We don't matter, except to ourselves----"

"Oh, but we do," Fitchburn said. "We matter in direct ratio to the millions, or thousands, or even one that we influence. But go on, Kent."

He was an irritating man because he was speaking the truth--perhaps for the first time in his life.

"All right," I said angrily. "We matter to some extent. I grant you that--and that influence on one person, rightly exerted, can change the course of empire. But our influence is insignificant compared with that of the big boys. And we've got the biggest boys in the world aboard. What's _their_ excuse?"

Clyde B. Fitchburn took out a crushable pack and lit a thinking-man's cigarette. The bartender rushed over to light it for him.

"Thank you," Fitchburn said to the Monolithian. "Listen if you like. I know you will anyway."

The bartender smiled and deliberately went to the other end of the bar. I was sure he could hear just as well from there.

Fitchburn turned back to Joy and me. "Each of us has his own secret soul," he said, and punctuated that profound remark with a sip of Pernod. "I took this job, which entailed an end to my well-known destructive criticism of the administration, because my third wife has gone into court with a demand for more alimony. For me it's as simple as that. I can fight the demand with lawyers, or I can pay. Either way I need more money. You, Miss Linx, took your job because you saw a possibility of meeting more important people and thus advancing your career--or alternatively, meeting more interesting people and perhaps finding an intelligent and well-to-do mate. Am I not right, my dear?"

"Look, Joy," I said, "we don't have to sit here and listen to this----"

"Simmer down, Sam," she said. "Mr. Fitchburn's honesty is refreshing, if not altogether flattering. Mr. Fitchburn--may I call you Clyde?"

"Please do."

"Clyde," she said, "I admire you. Frankly, I always dialed you out when I accidently heard you on the air. It's a pity more people can't hear you over a drink, without benefit of microphone. A frank question, Clyde: What do you now consider your role to be?"

"An easy question from a friend," Fitchburn said. "I am, as of 48 hours ago, approximately, an apologist for the well-paying Monolithians. And you, Miss Linx?"

"Joy," she said. "A fearful Joy, perhaps, to steal the words of Mr. Cary, but an honest one, I hope. My role? You've already said it, Clyde. Meeting interesting, friendly people, with a loving but calculating female eye to the future. There--now I've said it, too."

"But what do you fear?" Fitchburn asked.

"That the Monolithians are not all they profess to be. That their humanity--their seeming friendliness to us Earthpeople--is motivated by something we don't know anything about. That in the end we're all going to be more miserable for it--if we exist to be miserable at all."

I ate a pretzel, feeling like a supernumerary carrying a rubber-tipped spear. I ate several pretzels, moodily, recalling my experience in the spaceship in the woods, my imprisonment and brain-picking and the covey of doubles for famous personages. And who were those aboard this spaceship? The real articles or the Monolithian duplicates?

"You'll get fat, eating all those pretzels," Joy said.

Clyde had said something to her and she to him and now she was worried about me. I was worried about me, too, and it had nothing to do with pretzels. It had to do with the whole human race.

"How well do you know President Allison?" I asked Clyde.

"As well as any reporter does," he said. "Maybe better--I had a private interview with him about a year ago."

"And the British Prime Minister? And the Frenchman and the German?"

"Slightly. I've met them at receptions a few times. Why?"

"Have you talked to them since they came aboard?"

"Yes. Not long. Just to say hello. What are you getting at, Kent?"

"I'm not sure. Did they look all right to you?"

"They all seemed weary and irritable, but otherwise okay. Two of them even remembered my name, which is a damn good average."

"What's this all about, Sam?" Joy asked. "You sound as if you have some inside information."

"I do," I said. "But I wonder what good it does me. It's something like a movie you've seen before. You know how it's going to end and there's no way to change it."

"My, you're morbid," Joy said. "I hope your movie had a happy ending."

Clyde Fitchburn had been gazing into his Pernod. "I've been thinking," he said to Joy. "The things our young friend here has been saying--or hinting--are beginning to tie in. I did notice something about our VIP's. Yes, definitely, now that I think of it. They looked tired, as I said. But that other thing I noticed--as I think back, it seems to me it wasn't just irritation. No; they were frightened. Yes, that's the word. Frightened. Scared to death."

"You mean they were afraid of this trip?" Joy asked. "I can't blame them for that. I'm still a little queasy after that takeoff. Little old internal organs may never be the same."

"Not that," Clyde said. "There was nothing cowardly about their fear. I know I'm expressing this badly, but it seemed to me that their trepidation was not for themselves--they're bigger men than that. No, it was as if there were something they were being forced to do--something that each had decided for himself had to be done. Each had made this great decision he could not avoid. It had to be made and each knew it was as right as any decision he had _ever_ made. But having made it, he wasn't sure the next step, which was out of his hands, would be the right one. Each of them--yes, I'm convinced of it now--was frightened for all humanity."

The bartender came over and said, "You are all very amusing, but while you have been libeling the Monolithians, one of your Earth nations has begun a war against the rest of your unhappy planet."

"What?" I said. "Which one?"

"What do you mean?" Joy asked. "How?"

Clyde Fitchburn merely twirled his glass in his hand and smiled sadly.

"You would not suspect. A tiny Caribbean country. The one ruled by that man with the big mouth. I believe it's called El Spaniola."

19 (AUG. 9, SAT.)

The fack can't be no longer disguised
that a Krysis is onto us.

--Artemus Ward

The story was coming in on the teletypes.

LA PLAZA, EL SPANIOLA, Aug. 9 (AP)--El Spaniola's military overlord, General Rafael Domingo Sanchez, today warned mankind that an O-bomb is poised, ready to drop, over each of the world's major cities. Unless there is unconditional surrender by noon (EST) today, he declared, they will be blasted into oblivion.

The ultimatum from this tiny Caribbean island nation, until last night dependent on its coffee and banana crops for its livelihood, specifically mentioned New York, London, Moscow, Peking, Paris, Bonn, Rio de Janeiro, Melbourne, Tokyo and Bombay. It cautioned, however, that the omission of any city from the list did not necessarily mean that it was not also threatened.

El Spaniola, which has over the past 18 months been secretly buying long range jetliners and converting them to bombers, claimed also to have given asylum to Dr. Franz Kuperman, the convicted atomic spy who disappeared after serving a ten-year term in a U.S. federal prison....

* * * * *

HAVANA, Aug. 9 (UPI)--The secret of the O-bomb, which today threatens the extinction of the planet, is a simple one which spymaster Franz Kuperman took into Spaniolan exile with him, diplomatic sources here said today. The scientists of the Western and Soviet worlds were frantically working toward that secret when Kuperman made his knowledge and its resulting power available to the four-million population banana-and-coffee "republic" of El Spaniola. Looming large....

* * * * *

PARIS, Aug. 9 (AFP)--The absence today of the world's leading statesmen, now on the Monolithian satellite of Ultra, made it doubtful that there would be a quick reply from the Quai D'Orsay to the threat of El Spaniola.

"We must await word from our President," a spokesman said at 6 A.M. (EST). "He is undoubtedly in consultation with our allies and, at this very moment, charting a course of action."

* * * * *

LONDON, Aug. 9 (Reuters)--The Foreign Office had no immediate comment early today on the bomb threat alleged to be poised over London and other world capitals.

The acting prime minister urged the nation to be calm. He said he did not entirely discount the possibility that the threat was a hoax or a bluff, although radar did confirm that an unidentified aircraft was circling high overhead.

As a precaution the Air Ministry ordered all planes, civil and military, grounded.

* * * * *

WASHINGTON, Aug. 9 (WW)--The question of why El Spaniola's O-bombers can't be shot out of the air was answered today by Pentagon sources. Each of the terrible bombs is encased in a virtually indestructible shell and cannot be detonated by another explosion. Thus, even though the bomber were to be pulverized, the O-bomb itself would survive and fall toward its target, exploding at a prearranged altitude chosen to achieve maximum destruction....

* * * * *

BULLETIN

SOMEWHERE IN CISLUNAR SPACE, Aug. 9 (AP)--A giant spaceship carrying the leaders of Earth to a historic conference made contact today with the Monolithian satellite Ultra, but the talks were overshadowed by El Spaniola's threatened destruction of major world centers....

* * * * *

BULLETIN

ABOARD THE SATELLITE ULTRA, Aug. 9 (UPI)--Monolithia assured the world today that no harm would come to any of its cities despite the O-bomb ultimatum of El Spaniola.

The assurance came in a joint communiqué issued by Earth's major nations and the United Nations Secretary-General, Nils Nilsen.

They said they were supremely confident, on the basis of what the Monolithians had told them, that no O-bomb would be dropped and that El Spaniola would be justly dealt with for its threat to the peace of the world.

While it was not explicitly stated in the communiqué, it was understood that the superior science of the Monolithians was more than sufficient to disarm or render harmless the Spaniolan O-bombers.

The text of the communiqué was....

* * * * *

ULTRA, Aug. 9 (AP)--The abortive attempt of El Spaniola to seize world domination during the absence from Earth of the world's leaders was seen here as a warning to any would-be dictator that he would get nowhere fast....

* * * * *

BULLETIN

LA PLAZA, EL SPANIOLA, Aug. 9 (UPI)--Rafael Domingo Sanchez, El Spaniola's strong man, bowed to a Monolithian edict today and ordered his dozen or more O-bombers to return home from around the world, their death-dealing weapons undropped. He sent word out from his fortress palace that there would be no explanation from him of what threat or persuasion the Monolithians had used to thwart his plan for world conquest....

* * * * *

HAVANA, Aug. 9 (AFP)--Rumors circulated here today that a "conscience gas" was the secret Monolithian weapon that had forced the Spaniolan dictator, Domingo Sanchez, to call off his threat to wipe out a big percentage of the world's population.

* * * * *

NEW YORK, Aug. 9 (Tass)--Reports that "conscience gas" had been used by the extraterrestrials to abort the Spaniolan threat to humanity were greeted with dismay in Wall Street circles today.

Financial and big business tycoons were said to be shuddering in their expensive shoes for fear that the gas might also be used against them.

The capitalist chiefs were reported to have hurriedly arranged a conference with their captive Congressmen to have them introduce legislation to prohibit the use of any such gas. They feared, of course, that if they were exposed to its effects--perhaps at the bargaining table with representatives of organized labor--their ability to exploit the workers for fantastic profits would be at an end. The whole capitalistic hierarchy....

20 (AUG. 10, SUN.)

Me seemes the world is runne quite out of square,
From the first point of his appointed sourse,
And being once amisse growes daily wourse and wourse.

--Edmund Spenser

"Don't bother me," I said, pulling the sheet back up. "This is a day of rest."

"Not for the unrighteous," Stew Macon said, yanking the sheet down again. "Come on, Sam--there are forty-'leven reporters out there with umpty-two thousand questions to ask. They hear you got a fill-in last night and they're mad because you didn't tell them right away."

"I had my reasons," I said, sitting up. "The chief one being that I was dead tired. Earth's in one piece, isn't it? What more do they want?"

"They want a Monday paper story, what else? They said maybe you ought to have a whiff of that conscience gas yourself."

"All right." I got up and started to dress.

"Don't waste time shaving," Stew said. "They can stand you the way you are."

I shaved anyway, using the time to sort out what I was going to tell them.

They were there with their notebooks and sheafs of copy paper and lapel tape recorders and cameras, gathered impatiently in one of Ultra's big conference rooms. There was a magnificent close-up view of the moon through a transparent section of the hull, but no one was paying any attention to it.

My confrères, the British, French, Russian and other information officers or press secretaries, were seated behind a long table on a dais. An empty chair near the center of the table was flanked by Joy Linx and that Monolithian, Frij, who masqueraded as Addison Madison.

I took my seat and the UPI man jumped up and said, "Can we start now? Sam, tell us more about this conscience gas. How did it get to Domingo Sanchez? Was it dropped over his capital or piped into his office through the air conditioning, or what?"

That was an easy one. Frij had briefed me fully on that the night before.

"Simple," I said. "They rigged his microphone. You know the one he goes to every day to harangue the multitude and blast the big powers."

"Of course we know," the UPI said, "but _how_?"

"An American technician did it. Despite his anti-U.S. diatribes, Domingo Sanchez still needs American help locally. The technician sprayed the microphone with the gas, using a sort of pocket atomizer. Domingo breathed in the fumes his own moist breath activated."

"What does the gas do," a network correspondent asked; "affect the nerve centers of the brain?"

"Something like that. It makes the subject acutely aware of any suffering he is capable of causing. It has the psychological effect of making him actually feel the hurt he intends before he inflicts it. The more drastic the act he contemplates, the greater his pain. He can relieve the pain only by a clear-cut decision not to inflict the hurt."

"How long does this effect last?" a science writer asked. "Can't Domingo send the planes back up again when it wears off?"

I looked at Frij, but Joy had already shoved a piece of paper across to me. I read it quickly.

"No," I said. "The effect is permanent."

There was a stir in the room, and someone asked, "You mean Domingo Sanchez, erstwhile scourge of the Caribbean, is now and forever more on the side of the angels?"

I waited for the laughter to die down and said, "That's right. There shouldn't be any more trouble from El Spaniola--as long as the present regime lasts."

"Oh," the UPI man said, "then this gas was used only on Domingo Sanchez. It's not transferable? You know what I mean--contagious, like a cold?"

"It's not communicable in the way a disease is, but it doesn't necessarily have to be administered individually. One pellet no bigger than the end of my thumb, for example, would be enough to gas everybody in this room. I have a fact-sheet on the gas that I'll hand out to you after the press conference. I think it will answer most of the technical questions you may have. Its formula, of course, remains a Monolithian secret."

The Reuters man had a question for the British press officer: "Now that the Spaniola threat is ended, when does the super-summit meeting start and what's it all about? What's the agenda?"

"The conference is already in progress," the Briton said.

"How long will it last? What are they discussing?"

"They are discussing the future of mankind and it will go on as long as is necessary."

"Who represents Monolithia?" a French correspondent asked.

The French press officer shrugged and turned to Frij who, in his best Addison Madison manner, smiled and said, "That's a good question, old man. They haven't lifted the veil on that one."

"What are we going to call him in our stories? At least give us his title."

"I'll try to pry it out of them," Frij said. "Meanwhile, why not call him Mr. M.? That stands for Monolithia, I hasten to add. It isn't necessarily his initial."

That was about as far as anyone went. There were a few more questions, which drew vague or uninformative replies, and then the briefing ended with the promise that the press would be informed when the super-summit conference was over and that any communiqué would be expedited.

I hurried after the UPI man to ask about something that had been puzzling me. "Hey," I said, "where's the AP?"

"In his cabin, sick as a dog. His old intestinal trouble's acting up again. He never should have come on this junket."

"What about his story?" I asked. "Anybody going to file for him?"

"Don't worry. As soon as we get our own stories off, we're going to chip in and do one under his byline."

"That's damn nice of you."

"Nuts," the UPI said. "You've done the same thing in your time."

The way he put it made me realize how far out of things I was. I was beginning to feel like the tiresome old P.R. man who keeps telling people how he used to be a newspaper man himself.

The reporters had all gone off to file their stories and the only ones left in the conference room were Frij, Joy and the press officers. Frij and Joy were talking by themselves. I wandered over.

"I suppose you've got lots of this conscience gas," Joy was saying.

"Sufficient unto our needs," Frij said in his irritating way.

"Is there any here on Ultra?" I asked him. "I'd like to see what it looks like."

"Like many gases, it's invisible, as well as being odorless and tasteless. Joy, why don't you take our curious young man on a guided tour of Ultra? He's been so busy since he arrived that he hasn't had a chance to give it more than a once-over."

When we were out of earshot Joy said, "I guess you don't like Frij much, either."

"He's the first of them to rub me that way," I said. "Most of them are quite charming."

"It's my personal opinion they're all queer," Joy said.

"You mean homosexuals?"

"Either that or the Monolithian equivalent. Maybe I put it too strongly, but there's something wrong with them."

"Well, they're aliens, after all. You can't expect them to be just like us."

"No, but I've taken that into consideration. They don't have any women."

"Most explorers don't. Columbus didn't. The women come later, when the men have made things easier for them."

"Ha!" Joy said. "Go tell that to the Israeli women."

"You know what I mean."

We had made our way up the inner spiral ramp to the top-most part of the sphere.

"I guess I'm supposed to show you the view," Joy said. "Behold the moon. And, yonder, the stars. We don't seem to be able to see Earth from here. I hope it's still intact.... Who's that?"

It was a man kneeling close to the transparent outer edge of the corridor. We had startled him. He got to his feet, guiltily, then saw who we were.

"Oh, hello, Sam. Hello, Joy." It was Rod Harris of the AP. "Come here. Have a look at this."

"I thought you were sick," I said.

"I must be sick," Rod said. "I'm seeing double."

"Let me feel your head," Joy said. "I'll bet you have a fever."

"By all means feel my head. A pleasure. But that isn't what's the matter with me. Look out there. See those shiny things fastened to the hull at the ends of those long rods?"

"I see them," Joy said. "They're like silver Christmas tree ornaments. What are they?"

"I don't know what they're for," Rod said. "Maybe they're solar batteries or radar. Anyway they act just like mirrors. Look in that one. See? It lets you see right into one of the rooms. It's hard to tell at first, but I think I've got it figured out that the room's on the level just below us--what they call B Deck."

"I see it now. There must be a dozen or more people in there. Hey, they must be the VIPs! There's Gov, and the Russian and the Indian----"

"That's who they are, Joy. Can you make out what they're doing?"

"As far as I can see they're not doing a thing except lounging back in big chairs. They don't seem to be talking. I can't even tell if they've got their eyes open."

"They haven't," Rod said. "They're all asleep--or unconscious. Okay? Now look at that reflector--over there, to the left. No, higher. There. Now what do you see?"

"That's Gov! The President again!"

"Good. Now look in the next room. The man with the mustache--who's that?"

"The British Prime Minister?"

"Right," Rod said excitedly. "Now look into the room on the other side of Gov's. Here, shift over this way a little. There."

"That must be my room," I said. "Hey, there's somebody in it. Going through my suitcase. He won't find much. He looks vaguely familiar but I can't make out who he is."

"No wonder he looks familiar, Sam," Joy said. "That's you!"

"She's right, Sam," Rod said. "That's either you or your double. Do you have any idea what the hell's going on?"

It was me, all right--or my double. If you've ever seen yourself in a home movie or on a TV monitor you know how it takes a second or so for you to recognize yourself on the screen--probably because you're so used to full-face reversed image you get in the bathroom mirror every morning. My double, apparently having found nothing in my things, took a last look around and let himself out into the corridor, where we lost sight of him.

"Well?" Rod said. "Want to chase him with me?"

"No," I said. "It wouldn't do any good. He's a Monolithian. So are all the other duplicates."

"Well," Rod said. "I see where you and I ought to have a good long talk. You know all this for a fact?"

I nodded. "Yes. All right, Rod. If I tell you what I know--and what I'm beginning to suspect--will you print it?" The fact that my duplicate was here in Ultra and not down in Bethesda where he would be capable of hurting Mae had something to do with my decision to spill to the AP.

"Every damn word, Sam," Rod Harris said.

Joy shrieked when the interior wall of the corridor slid back, revealing a Monolithian pointing a weapon of some sort at us.

The Monolithian smiled. "Miss Linx and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that censorship has just been imposed."

21 (AUG. 11, MON.)

No matter how thin you slice it,
it's still boloney.

--Al Smith

"Resistance would have been futile, I suppose," Joy Linx said.

We were Monday-morning quarterbacking our capture, now nearly 24 hours old.

"Never argue with a man with a gun," Rod Harris said. "Old city-desk adage."

We were in a big room, much more luxurious than my previous Monolithian cell, and which we judged to be at Ultra's dead center. It had a wall-to-wall carpet, four couches, some straight chairs, a big bare desk and indirect lighting. There were two doors--the one we'd come in through and another to a well-equipped bathroom, which afforded our only privacy from each other. We'd slept in our clothes on the couches without blankets. It had been chilly.

We'd had no visitors except a Monolithian who brought us food but no enlightenment about our fate. He said not a word to us.

In the morning we took turns in the bathroom, Rod and I shaving and Joy fixing her face and untousling her hair.

"How about the next time the waiter comes in we jump him?" Joy asked.

"And how about him shooting us right in the head?" I said. "You notice he keeps his gun right under the tray."

"Better to be a live coward than a dead hero," Rod said. "Old copy-desk maxim."

"Never saw such level-headed, clear-thinking captives," Joy said. "I admire your restraint."

"He who lives to run away may file his story another day," Rod said. "Old----"

"Don't tell me. Old front-office memo. Well, what's your story going to say, if you ever get to file it?"

"It's going to say Monolithians are no damn good. It's going to say they should go back where they came from, since they don't like it here. On Earth, I mean."

"It seems to be _us_ they don't like," I said. "Let's write a story, Rod. It'll be something to do."

"Sure, why not? Even if it's published posthumously."

"That's what I like," Joy said. "Optimism. All right, you ace reporters, go ahead and write your story. You can even dictate it to me. I've got the old pad in the old handbag."

Joy took out her steno pad and poised a pencil over it.

Rod lay back on one of the couches. "Fair enough. How shall we start, Sam?"

"Dateline," I said. "Ultra, August whatever-it-is--eleven? That part's easy. Then what? AP? WW?"

"No," Rod said. "Special to the Free Press of the World. By Sam Kent and Rod Harris."

"As told to Joy Linx," I said.

"Sure, put that down," Rod said. "It's going to look like one of those six-man bylines in the _New York Post_, but what the hell."

"Thank you, gentlemen. Shall I read back what I've got so far?"

"Don't be flippant. Now let's see. A good lead is half the story. How about, 'Probably the most fantastic plot in Earth's history was being hatched today on the Monolithian super-satellite Ultra.'"

"Take out the 'probably,'" I said. "Earth never had an extraterrestrial plot before."

"Good desk man's deletion. That's giving it the whambo-zambo. Now, second sentence--new paragraph: 'A conspiracy involving substitution of Earth's leading statesmen by Monolithians impersonating them down to the last birthmark'--is that the way you see it, Sam?"

"Exactly," I said. "... 'down to the last birthmark threatens to reduce the world to the status of a colony in an alien empire.'"

"Good," Rod said. "I see we're talking on the same channel. Now: 'The seemingly friendly Monolithians, who made such a well-publicized point of allying themselves, through the United Nations, with Earth's highest aspirations toward peace and brotherhood....'"

We must have worked on it for two hours. When Joy had taken it all down and we'd gone over it with the old editorial pencil, it read like this:

by Sam Kent and Rod Harris as told to Joy Linx

ULTRA, Aug. 11 (Special to the Free Press of the World)--The most
fantastic plot in Earth's history unfolded today in the Monolithian
super-satellite Ultra.

A conspiracy involving substitution of Earth's leading statesmen
by Monolithians impersonating them down to the last birthmark
threatened to reduce the world to the status of a colony in an
alien empire.

The seemingly friendly Monolithians who publicly allied themselves
with Earth's highest aspirations toward peace and brotherhood have
been unmasked as schemers and plotters bent on conquest--conquest
by bloodless subversion if possible, but by force if necessary.

Events have made it clear that the ordinary people of Earth, their
doubts stilled by the fact that their trusted leaders had agreed to
a super-summit meeting, had no way of knowing the great pressures
that had been brought to bear on their presidents and prime
ministers.

The recent "peril"--that of the alleged threat to annihilate the
world's major cities by Spaniolan O-bombs--has been revealed by
authoritative sources as a gigantic hoax.

These sources, who include an official close to the President of
the United States, are convinced that the threat never existed.
They said it was an incident manufactured by the Monolithians with
the willing cooperation of the Spaniolan dictator, General Domingo
Sanchez, whose reward was to be the role of ruler of the Caribbean.
He, too, is expected to find that he's been a dupe of the aliens,
it was learned, and may not live to reap his reward.

The O-bombs he professed to have were nonexistent, these sources
said. While it seems likely that the Monolithians do possess the
"conscience gas" which reportedly ended the threat, there is
extreme doubt that it was actually used on Domingo Sanchez--simply
because he was a willing tool of the Monolithians and it wasn't
necessary.

It is believed that knowledge of part of the plot was the factor
that induced Earth's leaders to agree to the so-called super-summit
meeting here. The Monolithians told them that the Spaniolan
bombers--accompanied by refueling planes able to keep them aloft
indefinitely--were already airborne and en route to the target
cities. Disguised as commercial jet airliners and flying regular
flight lanes, they avoided challenge by air defense forces.

Faced with the potential destruction of their cities, the world's
leaders were forced to agree to the fantastic trip through space,
in alien craft, to Ultra. "They were not naïve, as many supposed,"
one high official said. "They were taking what they believed was
the only step possible to save the lives of millions of innocent
people."

Thus the Monolithians, who held out hope of preventing this
unparalleled massacre, were able to entice Earth's top Statesmen
into the trap.

Once in Ultra, accompanied only by aides and a few military
personnel armed feebly with hand guns, they were sitting ducks for
the next twist of the alien plot.

This was the great substitution of incredibly well-trained
Monolithians--transformed by alien medico-science into exact
duplicates--for the presidents of the United States and France, the
Prime Minister of Great Britain, the Premier of the Soviet Union,
the Chancellor of Germany, and the others who went on the ill-fated
journey.

From here, the future course of the plot is plain to see. The fake
leaders, acclaimed by their people as the saviors of humanity,
will be able to do no wrong. Their declarations of faith in the
motives of the Monolithians will go unchallenged.

The next step--the absolute domination of Earth by the
Monolithians--will be a short and terrible one.

There was no typewriter in the room, so Joy had transcribed it into longhand.

We were reading the story over and wondering aloud how, if ever, we were going to file it when the door opened. Rod quickly dropped the pages behind the couch.

Our jailer shoved another prisoner into the room and shut the door again. It was Spookie Masters, comedian, bon vivant and world traveler, looking sheepish.

"Pardon the intrusion, folks," Spookie said.

"I didn't know you were aboard," Rod said. "For pete's sake, Spookie, what happened?"

"I stowed away," he said, his usual self-assurance returning. "Didn't want to be left out of this great development in the affairs of men."

"Stowed away?" Joy said admiringly. "How could you? I thought security was as tight as a drum." The hero worship the entertainer always managed to evoke in women was shining in Joy's eyes.

"I guess I oversimplified," Spookie said. "Actually I used pull. Biff Overton's an old friend of mine and I persuaded him to have Gov smuggle me aboard in the guise of a fifth assistant undersecretary. Just consider me one of the striped-pants set."

Overton was only the Secretary of the Treasury. Spookie Masters seemed to know everybody.

"Yeah," Rod told him, "but somewhere along the line you goofed."

"That I did, Roddy my boy. I dropped the jolly old brick. I got bored playing diplomat and started wandering around. Just strolling, and having a look into this corner and that, you know, when it began to dawn on me that everything wasn't strictly kosher."

"For instance?" I asked.

"Little things at first, Sam." I was pleased as a cub that he'd remembered my name. "Like when I wandered into a funny room where they were faking messages between Ultra and Earth."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it was full of teletypes, like an Army message center I once had the misfortune to be assigned to. It seemed to be a Monolithian relay point. All the stories your colleagues filed passed through it--and they were all being edited or censored. And the incoming cables, or whatever you call them, were getting the same treatment. Lots of bright young men hard at work, doctoring the news of the world. Government messages, too. All Monolithians, I gather--but guess who their boss was, Sam."

"Who?"

"You. I gave you the big hello and you gave me the big vacant stare, and so I got out of there. I'm not an egomaniac, exactly, but I did think it a bit strange that you didn't remember ol' Spookie Masters."

"That wasn't me," I said. "I saw him, too."

"I didn't know then there were two of you. But after I snooped some more and saw two Gov Allisons and two French presidents and two of all the rest, it percolated fast that there was a big deficiency in the up-and-up department. By that time the boys in the wool cloaks were hot on my tail and I ended up here with you other charming spies. I presume that's what you're in for too."

"Where did you see these two sets of summiteers?" Rod asked. "I gather it wasn't long ago."

"Just a few minutes ago," Spookie said. "It was at the big porthole thing--you know, where we transferred from the spaceship. Only they were going out--one set into one spaceship and the other into a second. It's just a hunch, of course, but I sort of got the impression that the wrong presidents were going back to Earth."

22 (AUG. 12, TUES.)

He who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care,
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.

--William Butler Yeats

Maybe it was our high-class company, or maybe it was just that the Monolithians figured everything was going swimmingly for them. Whatever the reason, they treated us royally after Spookie Masters joined our little captive society.

The cuisine improved. Our jailers brought in cigarettes and cigars and fairly recent copies of _Harper's_ and _The New Yorker_. They rolled back a wall so Joy Linx could have a private bedroom and handed out blankets all around. They even brought in typewriters and stacks of copy paper. It was all quite cozy, except that we were still prisoners and that none of our captors ever spoke to us.

Spookie came out of the bathroom, wiping leftover lather off his face, and said, "What are they doing? I don't want to settle down here. We've got to find a way to bust out of this joint."

"Now," Rod said, "if that isn't an ace-high, triple-plated, razzle-dazzle idea, I've never heard one." He was having a second cup of our breakfast coffee. "And just how do you think we should carry out your splendid plan, Mr. Masters?"

"Cut it out, Rod," Spookie said. "I know I talk big. But have we explored all the possibilities? I suppose you've gone over this room with a fine-tooth comb, but how about Joy's? Maybe there's some way out from there."

"Miss Linx is still enjoying her beauty sleep," Rod said. "But it's a thought. Let's rout her out."

But the door opened and Joy said, "I heard that, you fiends. First respectable night's sleep I had, too, since I was thrown in among you great big leering men."

"Don't lump me in with these raffish reporters, ma'am," Spookie said. "I'm the soul of honor."

"I treat that remark with the doubt it deserves," Joy said. "But all this gay banter aside, men, I've been tinkering with a thought. Were you watching when they opened up the wall to make my room? Well, I was. There was a certain way our woolly friend touched the wall. Maybe if we felt around on the other side in here...."

We gave the wall a thorough going-over, fingering it, rapping on it and occasionally kicking it in frustration. Just as we were about to give up, it rolled back, revealing another room, bare except for some crates. There was a door to the corridor and Spookie went to it quickly. It opened easily and he peered out through a crack.

"Nobody out there," he said. "Let's go!"

I had opened the only one of the crates whose lid wasn't fastened down. It was filled nearly to the top with flat, black boxes about the size of a paperback book. I had no idea what they were but slipped several into my jacket pockets before following the others into the corridor.

It was still empty after we'd slunk quite a distance from our plush prison. We went down the spiral ramp, trying to head back to the press room, on the theory that we'd be safer among our own kind--though it was obvious now that every Earthman aboard was at the mercy of the Monolithians. Rod had our story and his chief interest at the moment was finding a way to file it to Earth uncensored.

Spookie went first, then Rod, followed by Joy. I brought up the rear.

I hadn't tied my shoes and they were flopping against the bare floor, making a racket. I stopped to tie them and the others disappeared around the bend.

Before I could catch up with them a Monolithian had caught me.

For a fraction of a second I didn't recognize him. He'd come up quietly behind me and just stood there until I noticed him.

"Hello, Sam," he said. "No, don't get up."

I remained on one knee and automatically finished the knot I was making as I looked up.

The fraction of a second over, I saw who it was. Me.

I tried to think of something to do or say, but all I could do was stare in fascination. He looked just a trifle wrong, but again I realized almost immediately that this was only because I was seeing not the mirror image I was used to, but an exact, unreversed duplicate.

He was looking at me with an almost hypnotic stare. My mind began to falter, like a car engine with bad cylinders.

"Up now, but slowly," my Monolithian duplicate said. He didn't seem to be armed. He was dressed exactly as I was, in jacket and slacks.

I got to my feet, unable to look away from his eyes.

"You are powerless to do anything except what I tell you," he said. It was true. I was only half thinking now, my attention concentrated on this superbly confident other self of mine. Somewhere among the missing cylinders, however, was my recollection that this was the creature who had taken my place in bed with Mae. My head hurt at the thought, coupled with his proximity. I longed to take him by the neck and throttle him until he was dead, dead, dead. But I was powerless to move except as he directed.

Then Joy came back around the bend behind him. I threw myself against him and he fell off balance. She had only a few seconds to take in the situation. She swung up her handbag and gave him a good clout on the head. He crumpled to the floor. She hit him again, on the downswing, and the sharp metal corner of her bag banged into his skull. He was out.

"Thanks, Joy. You're a lifesaver."