The rifle lay comfortably in his hands, a gleaming precision
instrument that exuded a faint odor of gun oil and powder
solvent. It was a perfect specimen of the gunsmith’s art, a
semi-automatic rifle with a telescopic sight--a precisely
engineered tool that could hurl death with pinpoint accuracy
for better than half a mile.
Daniel Matson eyed the weapon with bleak gray eyes, the eyes of a hunter framed in the passionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands were steady as they lifted the gun and tried a dry shot at an imaginary target. He nodded to himself. He was ready. Carefully he laid the rifle down on the mattress which covered the floor of his firing point, and looked out through the hole in the brickwork to the narrow canyon of the street below.
The crowd had thickened. It had been gathering since early morning, and the growing press of spectators had now become solid walls of people lining the street, packed tightly together on the sidewalks. Yet despite the fact that there were virtually no police, the crowd did not overflow into the streets, nor was there any of the pushing crowding impatience that once attended an assemblage of this sort. Instead there was a placid tolerance, a spirit of friendly good will, an ingenuous complaisance that grated on Matson’s nerves like the screeching rasp of a file drawn across the edge of thin metal. He shivered uncontrollably. It was hard to be a free man in a world of slaves.
It was a measure of the Aztlan’s triumph that only a bare half-dozen police ‘copters patrolled the empty skies above the parade route. The aliens had done this--had conquered the world without firing a shot or speaking a word in anger. They had wooed Earth with understanding patience and superlative guile--and Earth had fallen into their hands like a lovesick virgin! There never had been any real opposition, and what there was had been completely ineffective. Most of those who had opposed the aliens were out of circulation, imprisoned in correctional institutions, undergoing rehabilitation. Rehabilitation! a six bit word for dehumanizing. When those poor devils finished their treatment with Aztlan brain-washing techniques, they would be just like these sheep below, with the difference that they would never be able to be anything else. But these other stupid fools crowding the sidewalks, waiting to hail their destruction--these were the ones who must be saved. They--not the martyrs of the underground, were the important part of humanity.
A police ‘copter windmilled slowly down the avenue toward his hiding place, the rotating vanes and insect body of the craft starkly outlined against the jagged backdrop of the city’s skyline. He laughed soundlessly as the susurrating flutter of the rotor blades beat overhead and died whispering in the distance down the long canyon of the street. His position had been chosen with care, and was invisible from air and ground alike. He had selected it months ago, and had taken considerable pains to conceal its true purpose. But after today concealment wouldn’t matter. If things went as he hoped, the place might someday become a shrine. The idea amused him.
Strange, he mused, how events conspire to change a man’s career. Seven years ago he had been a respected and important member of that far different sort of crowd which had welcomed the visitors from space. That was a human crowd--half afraid, wholly curious, jostling, noisy, pushing--a teeming swarm that clustered in a thick disorderly ring around the silver disc that lay in the center of the International Airport overlooking Puget Sound. Then--he could have predicted his career. And none of the predictions would have been true--for none included a man with a rifle waiting in a blind for the game to approach within range...
The Aztlan ship had landed early that July morning, dropping silently through the overcast covering International Airport. It settled gently to rest precisely in the center of the junction of the three main runways of the field, effectively tying up the transcontinental and transoceanic traffic. Fully five hundred feet in diameter, the giant ship squatted massively on the runway junction, cracking and buckling the thick concrete runways under its enormous weight.
By noon, after the first skepticism had died, and the unbelievable TV pictures had been flashed to their waiting audience, the crowd began to gather. All through that hot July morning they came, increasing by the minute as farther outlying districts poured their curious into the Airport. By early afternoon, literally hundreds of millions of eyes were watching the great ship over a world-wide network of television stations which cancelled their regular programs to give their viewers an uninterrupted view of the enigmatic craft.
By mid-morning the sun had burned off the overcast and was shining with brassy brilliance upon the squads of sweating soldiers from Fort Lewis, and more sweating squads of blue-clad police from the metropolitan area of Seattle-Tacoma. The police and soldiery quickly formed a ring around the ship and cleared a narrow lane around the periphery, and this they maintained despite the increasing pressure of the crowd.
The hours passed and nothing happened. The faint creaking and snapping sounds as the seamless hull of the vessel warmed its space-chilled metal in the warmth of the summer sun were lost in the growing impatience of the crowd. They wanted something to happen. Shouts and catcalls filled the air as more nervous individuals clamored to relieve the tension. Off to one side a small group began to clap their hands rhythmically. The little claque gained recruits, and within moments the air was riven by the thunder of thousands of palms meeting in unison. Frightened the crowd might be, but greater than fear was the desire to see what sort of creatures were inside.
Matson stood in the cleared area surrounding the ship, a position of privilege he shared with a few city and state officials and the high brass from McChord Field, Fort Lewis, and Bremerton Navy Yard. He was one of the bright young men who had chosen Government Service as a career, and who, in these days of science-consciousness had risen rapidly through ability and merit promotions to become the Director of the Office of Scientific Research while still in his early thirties. A dedicated man, trained in the bitter school of ideological survival, he understood what the alien science could mean to this world. Their knowledge would secure peace in whatever terms the possessors cared to name, and Matson intended to make sure that his nation was the one which possessed that knowledge.
He stood beside a tall scholarly looking man named Roger Thornton, who was his friend and incidentally the Commissioner of Police for the Twin City metropolitan area. To a casual eye, their positions should be reversed, for the lean ascetic Thornton looked far more like the accepted idea of a scientist than burly, thick shouldered, square faced Matson, whose every movement shouted Cop.
Matson glanced quizzically at the taller man. “Well, Roger, I wonder how long those birds inside are going to keep us waiting before we get a look at them?”
“You’d be surprised if they really were birds, wouldn’t you?” Thornton asked with a faint smile. “But seriously, I hope it isn’t too much longer. This mob is giving the boys a bad time.” He looked anxiously at the strained line of police and soldiery. “I guess I should have ordered out the night shift and reserves instead of just the riot squad. From the looks of things they’ll be needed if this crowd gets any more unruly.”
Matson chuckled. “You’re an alarmist,” he said mildly. “As far as I can see they’re doing all right. I’m not worried about them--or the crowd, for that matter. The thing that’s bothering me is my feet. I’ve been standing on ‘em for six hours and they’re killing me!”
“Mine too,” Thornton sighed. “Tell you what I’ll do. When this is all over I’ll split a bucket of hot water and a pint of arnica with you.”
“It’s a deal,” Matson said.
As he spoke a deep musical hum came from inside the ship, and a section of the rim beside him separated along invisible lines of juncture, swinging downward to form a broad ramp leading upward to a square orifice in the rim of the ship. A bright shadowless light that seemed to come from the metal walls of the opening framed the shape of the star traveller who stood there, rigidly erect, looking over the heads of the section of the crowd before him.
A concerted gasp of awe and admiration rose from the crowd--a gasp that was echoed throughout the entire ring that surrounded the ship. There must be other openings like this one, Matson thought dully as he stared at the being from space. Behind him an Army tank rumbled noisily on its treads as it drove through the crowd toward the ship, the long gun in its turret lifting like an alert finger to point at the figure of the alien.
The stranger didn’t move from his unnaturally stiff position. His oddly luminous eyes never wavered from their fixed stare at a point far beyond the outermost fringes of the crowd. Seven feet tall, obviously masculine, he differed from mankind only in minor details. His long slender hands lacked the little finger, and his waist was abnormally small. Other than that, he was human in external appearance. A wide sleeved tunic of metallic fabric covered his upper body, gathered in at his narrow waist by a broad metal belt studded with tiny bosses. The tunic ended halfway between hip and knee, revealing powerfully muscled legs encased in silvery hose. Bright yellow hair hung to his shoulders, clipped short in a square bang across his forehead. His face was long, clean featured and extraordinarily calm--almost godlike in its repose. Matson stared, fascinated. He had the curious impression that the visitor had stepped bodily out of the Middle Ages. His dress and haircut were almost identical with that of a medieval courtier.
The starman raised his hand--his strangely luminous steel gray eyes scanned the crowd--and into Matson’s mind came a wave of peaceful calm, a warm feeling of goodwill and brotherhood, an indescribable feeling of soothing relaxation. With an odd sense of shock Matson realized that he was not the only one to experience this. As far back as the farthest hangers-on near the airport gates the tenseness of the waiting crowd relaxed. The effect was amazing! Troops lowered their weapons with shamefaced smiles on their faces. Police relaxed their sweating vigilance. The crowd stirred, moving backward to give its members room. The emotion-charged atmosphere vanished as though it had never been. And a cold chill played icy fingers up the spine of Daniel Matson. He had felt the full impact of the alien’s projection, and he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life!
They had been clever--damnably clever! That initial greeting with its disarming undertones of empathy and innocence had accomplished its purpose. It had emasculated Mankind’s natural suspicion of strangers. And their subsequent actions--so beautifully timed--so careful to avoid the slightest hint of evil, had completed what their magnificently staged appearance had begun.
The feeling of trust had persisted. It lasted through quarantine, clearance, the public receptions, and the private meetings with scientists and the heads of government. It had persisted unabated through the entire two months they remained in the Twin City area. The aliens remained as they had been in the beginning--completely unspoiled by the interest shown in them. They remained simple, unaffected, and friendly, displaying an ingenuous innocence that demanded a corresponding faith in return.
Most of their time was spent at the University of Washington, where at their own request they were studied by curious scholars, and in return were given courses in human history and behavior. They were quite frank about their reasons for following such a course of action--according to their spokesman Ixtl they wanted to learn human ways in order to make a better impression when they visited the rest of Mankind. Matson read that blurb in an official press release and laughed cynically. Better impression, hah! They couldn’t have done any better if they had an entire corps of public relations specialists assisting them! They struck exactly the right note--and how could they improve on perfection?
From the beginning they left their great ship open and unguarded while they commuted back and forth from the airport to the campus. And naturally the government quickly rectified the second error and took instant advantage of the first. A guard was posted around the ship to keep it clear of the unofficially curious, while the officially curious combed the vessel’s interior with a fine tooth comb. Teams of scientists and technicians under Matson’s direction swarmed through the ship, searching with the most advanced methods of human science for the secrets of the aliens.
They quickly discovered that while the star travellers might be trusting, they were not exactly fools. There was nothing about the impenetrably shielded mechanisms that gave the slightest clue as to their purpose or to the principles upon which they operated--nor were there any visible controls. The ship was as blankly uncommunicative as a brick wall.
Matson was annoyed. He had expected more than this, and his frustration drove him to watch the aliens closely. He followed them, sat in on their sessions with the scholars at the University, watched them at their frequent public appearances, and came to know them well enough to recognize the microscopic differences that made them individuals. To the casual eye they were as alike as peas in a pod, but Matson could separate Farn from Quicha, and Laz from Acana--and Ixtl--well he would have stood out from the others in any circumstances. But Matson never intruded. He was content to sit in the background and observe.
And what he saw bothered him. They gave him no reason for their appearance on Earth, and whenever the question came up Ixtl parried it adroitly. They were obviously not explorers for they displayed a startling familiarity with Earth’s geography and ecology. They were possibly ambassadors, although they behaved like no ambassadors he had ever seen. They might be traders, although what they would trade only God and the aliens knew--and neither party was in a talking mood. Mysteries bothered Matson. He didn’t like them. But they could keep their mystery if he could only have the technical knowledge that was concealed beneath their beautifully shaped skulls.
At that, he had to admit that their appearance had come at precisely the right time. No one better than he knew how close Mankind had been to the final war, when the last two major antagonists on Earth were girding their human and industrial power for a final showdown. But the aliens had become a diversion. The impending war was forgotten while men waited to see what was coming next. It was obvious that the starmen had a reason for being here, and until they chose to reveal it, humanity would forget its deadly problems in anticipation of the answer to this delightful puzzle that had come to them from outer space. Matson was thankful for the breathing space, all too well aware that it might be the last that Mankind might have, but the enigma of the aliens still bothered him.
He was walking down the main corridor of the Physics Building on the University campus, wondering as he constantly did about how he could extract some useful knowledge from the aliens when a quiet voice speaking accentless English sounded behind him.
“What precisely do you wish to know, Dr. Matson?” the voice said.
Matson whirled to face the questioner, and looked into the face of Ixtl. The alien was smiling, apparently pleased at having startled him. “What gave you the idea that I wanted to know anything?” he asked.
“You did,” Ixtl said. “We all have been conscious of your thoughts for many days. Forgive me for intruding, but I must. Your speculations radiate on such a broad band that we cannot help being aware of them. It has been quite difficult for us to study your customs and history with this high level background noise. We are aware of your interest, but your thoughts are so confused that we have never found questions we could answer. If you would be more specific we would be happy to give you the information which you seek.”
“Oh yeah!” Matson thought.
“Of course. It would be to our advantage to have your disturbing speculations satisfied and your fears set at rest. We could accomplish more in a calmer environment. It is too bad that you do not receive as strongly as you transmit. If you did, direct mental contact would convince you that our reasons for satisfying you are good. But you need not fear us, Earthman. We intend you no harm. Indeed, we plan to help you once we learn enough to formulate a proper program.”
“I do not fear you,” Matson said--knowing that he lied.
“Perhaps not consciously,” Ixtl said graciously, “but nevertheless fear is in you. It is too bad--and besides,” he continued with a faint smile “it is very uncomfortable. Your glandular emotions are quite primitive, and very disturbing.”
“I’ll try to keep them under control,” Matson said dryly.
“Physical control is not enough. With you there would have to be mental control as well. Unfortunately you radiate much more strongly than your fellow men, and we are unable to shut you out without exerting considerable effort that could better be employed elsewhere.” The alien eyed Matson speculatively. “There you go again,” he said. “Now you’re angry.”
Matson tried to force his mind to utter blankness, and the alien smiled at him. “It does some good--but not much,” he said. “Conscious control is never perfect.”
“Well then, what can I do?”
“Go away. Your range fortunately is short.”
Matson looked at the alien. “Not yet,” he said coldly. “I’m still looking for something.”
“Our technology,” Ixtl nodded. “I know. However I can assure you it will be of no help to you. You simply do not have the necessary background. Our science is based upon a completely different philosophy from yours.”
To Matson the terms were contradictory.
“Not as much as you think,” Ixtl continued imperturbably. “As you will find out, I was speaking quite precisely.” He paused and eyed Matson thoughtfully. “It seems as though the only way to remove your disturbing presence is to show you that our technology is of no help to you. I will make a bargain with you. We shall show you our machines, and in return you will stop harassing us. We will do all in our power to make you understand; but whether you do or do not, you will promise to leave and allow us to continue our studies in peace. Is that agreeable?”
Matson swallowed the lump in his throat. Here it was--handed to him on a silver platter--and suddenly he wasn’t sure that he wanted it!
“It is,” he said. After all, it was all he could expect.
They met that night at the spaceship. The aliens, tall, calm and cool; Matson stocky, heavy-set and sweating. The contrast was infernally sharp, Matson thought. It was as if a primitive savage were meeting a group of nuclear physicists at Los Alamos. For some unknown reason he felt ashamed that he had forced these people to his wishes. But the aliens were pleasant about it. They took the imposition in their usual friendly way.
“Now,” Ixtl said. “Exactly what do you want to see--to know?”
“First of all, what is the principle of your space drive?”
“There are two,” the alien said. “The drive that moves this ship in normal space time is derived from Lurgil’s Fourth Order equations concerning the release of subatomic energy in a restricted space time continuum. Now don’t protest! I know you know nothing of Lurgil, nor of Fourth Order equations. And while I can show you the mathematics, I’m afraid they will be of little help. You see, our Fourth Order is based upon a process which you would call Psychomathematics and that is something I am sure you have not yet achieved.”
Matson shook his head. “I never heard of it,” he admitted.
“The second drive operates in warped space time,” Ixtl continued, “hyperspace in your language, and its theory is much more difficult than that of our normal drive, although its application is quite simple, merely involving apposition of congruent surfaces of hyper and normal space at stress points in the ether where high gravitational fields balance. Navigation in hyperspace is done by electronic computer--somewhat more advanced models than yours. However, I can’t give you the basis behind the hyperspace drive.” Ixtl smiled depreciatingly. “You see, I don’t know them myself. Only a few of the most advanced minds of Aztlan can understand. We merely operate the machines.”
Matson shrugged. He had expected something like this. Now they would stall him off about the machines after handing him a fast line of double-talk.
“As I said,” Ixtl went on, “there is no basis for understanding. Still, if it will satisfy you, we will show you our machines--and the mathematics that created them although I doubt that you will learn anything more from them than you have from our explanation.”
“I could try,” Matson said grimly.
“Very well,” Ixtl replied.
He led the way into the center of the ship where the seamless housings stood, the housings that had baffled some of the better minds of Earth. Matson watched while the star men proceeded to be helpful. The housings fell apart at invisible lines of juncture, revealing mechanisms of baffling simplicity, and some things that didn’t look like machines at all. The aliens stripped the strange devices and Ixtl attempted to explain. They had anti-gravity, forcefields, faster than light drive, and advanced design computers that could be packed in a suitcase. There were weird devices whose components seemed to run out of sight at crazily impossible angles, other things that rotated frictionlessly, suspended in fields of pure force, and still others which his mind could not envisage even after his eyes had seen them. All about him lay the evidence of a science so advanced and alien that his brain shrank from the sight, refusing to believe such things existed. And their math was worse! It began where Einstein left off and went off at an incomprehensible tangent that involved psychology and ESP. Matson was lost after the first five seconds!
Stunned, uncomprehending and deflated, he left the ship. An impression that he was standing with his toe barely inside the door of knowledge became a conscious certainty as he walked slowly to his car. The wry thought crossed his mind that if the aliens were trying to convince him of his abysmal ignorance, they had succeeded far beyond their fondest dreams!
They certainly had! Matson thought grimly as he selected five cartridges from the box lying beside him. In fact they had succeeded too well. They had turned his deflation into antagonism, his ignorance into distrust. Like a savage, he suspected what he could not understand. But unlike the true primitive, the emotional distrust didn’t interfere with his ability to reason or to draw logical inferences from the data which he accumulated. In attempting to convince, Ixtl had oversold his case.
It was shortly after he had returned to Washington, that the aliens gave the waiting world the reasons for their appearance on Earth. They were, they said, members of a very ancient highly evolved culture called Aztlan. And the Aztlans, long past the need for conquest and expansion, had turned their mighty science to the help of other, less fortunate, races in the galaxy. The aliens were, in a sense, missionaries--one of hundreds of teams travelling the star lanes to bring the benefits of Aztlan culture to less favored worlds. They were, they unblushingly admitted, altruists--interested only in helping others.
It was pure corn, Matson reflected cynically, but the world lapped it up and howled for more. After decades of cold war, lukewarm war, and sporadic outbreaks of violence, that were inevitably building to atomic destruction, men were willing to try anything that would ease the continual burden of strain and worry. To Mankind, the Aztlans’ words were as refreshing as a cool breeze of hope in a desert of despair.
And the world got what it wanted.
Quite suddenly the aliens left the Northwest, and accompanied by protective squads of FBI and Secret Service began to cross the nation. Taking widely separated paths they visited cities, towns, and farms, exhibiting the greatest curiosity about the workings of human civilization. And, in turn, they were examined by hordes of hopeful humans. Everywhere they went, they spread their message of good will and hope backed by the incredibly convincing power of their telepathic minds. Behind them, they left peace and hopeful calm; before them, anticipation mounted. It rose to a crescendo in New York where the paths of the star men met.
The Aztlans invaded the United Nations. They spoke to the General Assembly and the Security Council, were interviewed by the secretariat and reporters from a hundred foreign lands. They told their story with such conviction that even the Communist bloc failed to raise an objection, which was as amazing to the majority of the delegates as the fact of the star men themselves. Altruism, it seemed, had no conflict with dialectic materialism. The aliens offered a watered-down variety of their technology to the peoples of Earth with no strings attached, and the governments of Earth accepted with open hands, much as a small boy accepts a cookie from his mother. It was impossible for men to resist the lure of something for nothing, particularly when it was offered by such people as the Aztlans. After all, Matson reflected bitterly, nobody shoots Santa Claus!
From every nation in the world came invitations to the aliens to visit their lands. The star men cheerfully accepted. They moved across Europe, Asia, and Africa--visited South America, Central America, the Middle East and Oceania. No country escaped them. They absorbed languages, learned customs, and spread good will. Everywhere they went relaxation followed in their footsteps, and throughout the world arose a realization of the essential brotherhood of man.
It took nearly three years of continual travelling before the aliens again assembled at UN headquarters to begin the second part of their promised plan--to give their science to Earth. And men waited with calm expectation for the dawn of Golden Age.
Matson’s lips twisted. Fools! Blind, stupid fools! Selling their birthright for a mess of pottage! He shifted the rifle across his knees and began filling the magazine with cartridges. He felt an empty loneliness as he closed the action over the filled magazine and turned the safety to “on”. There was no comforting knowledge of support and sympathy to sustain him in what he was about to do. There was no real hope that there ever would be. His was a voice crying in the wilderness, a voice that was ignored--as it had been when he visited the President of the United States...
Matson entered the White House, presented his appointment card, and was ushered past ice-eyed Secret Service men into the presidential office. It was as close as he had ever been to the Chief Executive, and he stared with polite curiosity across the width of desk which separated them.
“I wanted to see you about the Aztlan business,” the President began without preamble. “You were there when their ship landed, and you are also one of the few men in the country who has seen them alone. In addition, your office will probably be handling the bulk of our requests in regard to the offer they made yesterday in the UN. You’re in a favorable spot.” The President smiled and shrugged. “I wanted to talk with you sooner, but business and routine play the devil with one’s desires in this office.
“Now tell me,” he continued, “your impression of these people.”
“They’re an enigma,” Matson said flatly. “To tell the truth, I can’t figure them out.” He ran his fingers through his hair with a worried gesture. “I’m supposed to be a pretty fair physicist, and I’ve had quite a bit of training in the social sciences, but both the mechanisms and the psychology of these Aztlans are beyond my comprehension. All I can say for sure is that they’re as far beyond us as we are beyond the cavemen. In fact, we have so little in common that I can’t think of a single reason why they would want to stay here, and the fact that they do only adds to my confusion.”
“But you must have learned something,” the President said.
“Oh we’ve managed to collect data,” Matson replied. “But there’s a lot of difference between data and knowledge.”
“I can appreciate that, but I’d still like to know what you think. Your opinion could have some weight.”
Matson doubted it. His opinions were contrary to those of the majority. Still, the Chief asked for it--and he might possibly have an open mind. It was a chance worth taking.
“Well, Sir, I suppose you’ve heard of the so-called “wild talents” some of our own people occasionally possess?”
The President nodded.
“It is my belief,” Matson continued, “that the Aztlans possess these to a far greater degree than we do, and that their science is based upon them. They have something which they call psychomathematics, which by definition is the mathematics of the mind, and this seems to be the basis of their physical science. I saw their machines, and I must confess that their purpose baffled me until I realized that they must be mechanisms for amplifying their own natural equipment. We know little or nothing about psi phenomena, so it is no wonder I couldn’t figure them out. As a matter of fact we’ve always treated psi as something that shouldn’t be mentioned in polite scientific conversation.”