Part 11

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."