Collected Short Fiction, page 569
“Before you go: repeat the message you’re bearing.”
Crosley repeated it.
“You won’t attempt to negotiate with them, lieutenant. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll deliver the ultimatum and leave. It isn’t essential that you wait around for an answer. If they’re still here by morning, we’ll blast them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand what I’m saying now? You won’t tell me later that I authorized you to negotiate?”
Crosley smiled. “Of course not, sir.”
“Get going, then.”
The hours passed. Taps sounded, but Wharton remained awake, pacing his office uneasily. Starlight, bright in the moonless dark, filtered through his windows. Wharton clenched his fists and stared out into the night.
He pitied Breckenridge. It was a hellish thing to lose your grip on actuality. To maintain that something is true when it’s flatly false. The psych tests had shown nothing; Breckenridge firmly and positively believed that he had been instructed to parley. Schizophrenia, the psych officer said. But schizophrenia wasn’t something a person got suddenly, like a twisted ankle, was it? It was a slowly building pattern of action and belief. And Breckenridge had always seemed one of the most stable men of all.
Inescapably Wharton came to the conclusion that the Halivanu had done something to him. But Breckenridge said they hadn’t, and the EEG tests revealed no hint of recent drugging or hypnosis. Not that the EEG was necessarily infallible—
Wharton glowered at his faint reflection in the window. He was certain the Halivanu had no mysterious powers. They were just another isolationist race, bent on their own destinies and aloof from the rest of the universe. That was no reason for crediting them with magical abilities.
A light glimmered outside. Wharton heard the roar of the jetsled. Crosley was returning.
Impatiently, Wharton dashed outside. The night air was clear, cold, tangy. Crosley and his driver, an enlisted man named Rodriguez, were getting out of the sled.
They saluted when they saw him. Returning the salute with a shaky arm, Wharton said, “Did you run into any trouble?”
“No, sir. But we didn’t find him, either,” Crosley replied. “We searched for hours, but—”
“What in the name of the cosmos are you babbling about?” Wharton demanded in a choked voice. “You didn’t find whom?”
“Why, Breckenridge, of course,” Crosley said. He exchanged a puzzled glance with Rodriguez. “We traveled in wide circles just as you said, until—”
Wharton felt dizzy. “What’s this about looking for Breckenridge?”
“Didn’t you send us out to look for him? He got lost in the plains coming back from his trip to the alien ship, and we were ordered to look for him. Sir? Sir, are you feeling all right?”
Cold fingers seemed to be encircling Wharton’s heart. “Come inside with me, lieutenant. You too, Rodriguez.”
He led them into his office and played for them the tape he had made of his conversation with Crosley earlier. The two men listened in growing confusion.
When the tape had run its course, Wharton said, “Do you still maintain that I sent you out to look for Breckenridge?”
“But . . . yes—”
“Breckenridge is asleep in the infirmary. He was never lost. He came back hours ago. I sent you out to deliver an ultimatum. Didn’t you recognize your own voice, Crosley?”
“It sounded like me, yes. But . . . I don’t remember . . . that is—” Further questioning led down the same dead end. The tape transcript only bewildered Crosley. He grew paler and paler. He was certain they had merely traveled in wide circles looking for Breckenridge, and Rodriguez backed him up on that. Even when Wharton assured him that he had watched their path on the radar, and they had gone direct to the Halivanu ship and returned straightaway, they shook their heads.
“We never went near that ship, sir. Our orders—”
“All right, lieutenant. Go to bed. You too, Rodriguez. Maybe in the morning you’ll have better memories.”
Wharton could not sleep. First Breckenridge, then Crosley and Rodriguez, all of them returning from the Halivanu ship with insane stories. The first cracks began to appear in Wharton’s self-confidence. Maybe there was something in those space-hounds’ tales of the Halivanu.
No. Beyond belief.
But how else to explain what had happened to his men? Schizophrenia wasn’t contagious, was it? It was hard to swallow the fact that three men had gone out to the aliens and three men had returned . . . changed. That was the only word for it. And changed retroactively. Crosley even denied the validity of the tape he had made.
By morning, Wharton knew what his only choice was. He was no longer concerned primarily with protecting Terra’s sovereignty. That was important, but not as important as finding out just what kind of hocus-pocus the Halivanu had pulled on his men. And the only way to find out was to go to the aliens himself.
But, of course, certain necessary precautions ought to be taken—just in case.
When morning came he sent for Captain Lowell, one of the senior officers—the senior officer, with both Breckenridge and Crosley on the unreliable list. “Lowell, I’m going to make a trip to the Halivanu ship myself. You’re in charge of the base till I get back. And—listen carefully—I’m going to give the Halivanu four hours to get off this planet. At the end of four hours’ time I want you to blast them with the heavy-cycle guns, even if I order you not to do it. Got that? Go against my direct order, if you have to.”
Lowell looked utterly befuddled. “Sir, I don’t understand—”
“Don’t try to understand. Just listen. I’ve made a tape of this conversation. Keep it safe and play it for me when I get back.”
Leaving behind a sorely confused Lowell, Wharton made his way out to the jetsled. Smithson, who had piloted Breckenridge, was again at the controls.
They traveled in silence, the jets boosting the sled quickly and smoothly over the flat plains. The sun rose higher as they traveled. Wharton found himself yearning for the comfort of Deepsleep. But that would have to wait a few more hours, he thought. The matter would be settled, one way or another, in a few hours. If only Lowell would have the guts to disobey him, in case he came back changed. Wharton smiled. He was confident he’d return in full command of his senses.
It was midmorning when the sled reached the plateau where the Halivanu had established camp. Wharton saw tents surrounding the sleek alienlooking spaceship, and half a dozen Halivanu were busily setting up instrumentation. They were tall, thin beings with coarse-grained, glossy gray-green skin. As the sled pulled up, one of them detached himself from the group and came toward Wharton.
“You Earthmen must enjoy paying us visits,” the alien said in the Fawdese dialect. “By my count, you’re the third.”
“And the last,” Wharton said. Despite himself, he felt an uneasy chill. The Halivanu had a strange, sickly-sweet odor and was nearly seven feet tall.
“What is your message?” the Halivanu asked, and in the same instant Wharton felt something like a feather brushing the back of his skull.
“I . . . what are you doing?” He put his hand to the back of his head—but the feather still tickled him—
And then his panic died away.
“Well?” the alien demanded.
Wharton smiled. “I’m the Terran commander. I’ve come to . . . to tell you that it’s all right . . . that you can stay here until you’re through.”
“Thank you,” said the Halivanu gravely. He smiled, revealing black gums, and Wharton returned the smile. “Is that all?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s all,” Wharton said. He looked at Smithson. “We didn’t have anything else to say, did we, Smithson?”
Smithson shrugged. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Good. We might as well go back, then.”
Lowell greeted him as the jetsled rumbled into the center of the compound. “Did all go well, sir?”
“Fine,” Wharton said.
“The Halivanu are leaving, then?”
“Leaving?” Wharton frowned. “Why should they be leaving? They’ve only begun their work.”
“But . . . Colonel—”
“Yes, what is it?” Wharton snapped testily.
“You left an order—you said that at the end of four hours we should open fire on the Halivanu if they were still here.”
Wharton frowned and started to walk on. “Must have been a mistake, Lowell. Order countermanded.” Lowell ducked around and put himself in front of the colonel. “I’m sorry, sir. You told me to proceed on schedule even against your direct order.”
“Nonsense!”
“There’s a tape recording in your office—”
“I don’t care. The Halivanu have permission to stay here. Let’s have no talk of going against my direct orders, shall we?”
Mottled blotches appeared on Lowell’s jowly face. “Colonel, I know this sounds strange, but you yourself insisted—”
“And I myself countermand the order! Do I have to make it any clearer, captain? Please get out of my way. I say ’please’ because you’re an officer, but—”
Lowell stood his ground. Sweat rolled down his forehead. “The tape—”
“Will you give ground, Lowell?”
“No, sir. You definitely specified that I should not listen to any subsequent order countermanding your original one. And therefore—”
“Any commanding officer who gives a nonretractable order has to be out of his head,” Wharton snapped. He signaled to two of the men nearby. “Place Captain Lowell in restrictive custody. I may be easy-going, but I won’t tolerate insubordination.” Lowell, still protesting, was borne away. Wharton went on into his office. A tape was in the recorder. With a thoughtful frown he nudged the playback knob and listened.
. . . I’m going to give the Halivanu four hours to get off this planet. At the end of four hours’ time I want you to blast them with the heavy-cycle guns, even if I order you not to do it. Got that? Go against my direct order . . .
Wharton’s shaggy eyebrows lifted questioningly. Beyond a doubt it was his own voice. But why should he have said such a thing? The Halivanu had every right to be here. Why, right here on his desk was the authorization from Terra, allowing them to stop here for a while and make solar observations. The paper was right here—he fumbled through a pile of documents without coming across it. He shrugged. It had probably been misfiled. But he knew it was here, somewhere. He had seen it with his own eyes, after all.
What about the tape, then? Colonel Wharton shook his head and decided he must be getting old, to have ever given Lowell weird orders like that. Somewhere deep in his mind a silent voice was lifted in inner protest, but the complaint, wordless, never reached conscious levels. Yawning wearily, Wharton flipped the erase knob on the tape recorder, waited until the message was completely obliterated, and ambled over to the infirmary for his ninety minutes of Deepsleep.
THE END
The Impossible Intelligence
What was the connection between the strange arachnids and the disappearance of four young women from the area around the lake? Obviously, these small insectlike creatures couldn’t have spirited them away. And why had four suffered from delirium and weird dreams, just before they vanished?
IT WAS A warm and mild August night, with just the merest hint of rain in the distance—the kind of night on which there are few pleasures greater than a fine meal followed by a gramophone concert in the music room. And the meal was indeed fine; Mary Quinlan, our estimable factotum, had quite outdone herself with a magnificent roast capon, and the mouth of my friend and companion Dario di Cesare was literally watering as he deftly drew the cork from a bottle of chilled Chablis.
“Bene,” the little Italian muttered. “The obstinate obstruction gives way at last, and we are free to enjoy our wine!” He filled my glass lavishly.
“Drink hearty, friend Starbuck, and proceed to attack your fowl with gusto—for the great talents of Callas await us in the music room.”
Di Cesare had brought home but that afternoon a new album of operatic discs, and I knew that only the opulence of the meal Miss Quinlan had prepared had kept him from plunging at once toward our music room to surround himself with the wonderful melodies of Donizetti. For the peppery little psychoanalyst had brought with him from his native land—when forced by tyranny to leave twenty years before—the Italian’s fanatical devotion to opera.
“Looks as though there’ll be rain tonight,” I ventured.
“Si. Clouds shroud the stars,” di Cesare remarked between mouthfuls of tender white meat. “There will be no glorious meteoric displays tonight, I fear. But for us there will be a display more dazzling than even the Leonid showers, via the spinning discs.”
FOR THE past two weeks, we had been subjected to nightly meteor showers of great intensity—a normal occurrence in August, though this year they seemed particularly intense—and di Cesare and I had witnessed in wonder the fall of one blazing beauty several weeks before. Tonight, though, the little Italian’s mind was riveted exclusively on his new operatic album, and not even the unheralded appearance of the Star of Bethlehem would budge him from the music room this evening.
“Excuse me, sirs,” Mary Quinlan said, entering the dining room with an air of irritation. “There’s a young man outside who insists on seeing you, Dr. di Cesare. I told him you’re eating, but he won’t go away, and he says he’ll stay outside all night making a racket until I let him in to talk to you, so . . .”
Di Cesare cut off the voluble flow with a gesture of one hand. “Ahime,” he sighed sadly, “will interruptions never cease? Send him in, Miss Quinlan.”
“But your dinner . . .”
“Send him in. Perhaps he will be brief, and we can return in peace to this excellent bird.”
THE YOUNG man who entered was hatless and wildlooking. Moist patches of sweat showed through his thin sports shirt. He glanced at our laden table and said apologetically, “I hate to come barging in like this when you’re in the middle of dinner, Dr. di Cesare.”
“The damage is done,” my friend said, his eyes sparkling with annoyance. “Now that you are here, tell us, per javore, why it is you must disturb us at this hour.”
“It’s my wife,” he said. “She’s disappeared—gone without a trace!”
“A case for the police, not us,” I snapped. “Dr. di Cesare isn’t in the business of crime detection.”
“Wait,” the young man exclaimed. “You see, she—she has been delirious for several days. Muttering about a cave, and insects talking to her, and all kinds of other gibberish. She didn’t have any fever or anything, but her eyes were closed, and she didn’t seem to hear anything we said to her. I had the doctor—maybe you know him, Dr. Starbuck, he’s Dr. Wright from Lorimer Street—but he couldn’t figure out what the matter was, and suggested that it was a mental breakdown, and that I call in a psychiatrist. And then some time this afternoon she disappeared! I had engaged a nurse for her, you see, and the nurse was going to bathe her, and had gone to draw the water; and when she came back the bed was empty and my wife was gone!”
I SAID, “This is all very interesting, Mr.—Mr . . .”
“Collins. Paul Collins.”
“Mr. Collins. But you’ve made a mistake by coming here. Phillipsburg has a very efficient police force to deal with disappearances. And in any event, my friend Dr. di Cesare is not a psychiatrist. He is a psychoanalyst; that is to say, he practices Freudian therapy to cure neuroses, and . . .”
“Basta!” di Cesare exclaimed. “If there is any explaining to do, friend Starbuck, let me do it.” He looked sharply up at the young man. “Your wife, Mr. Collins, has vanished after a sudden schizophrenic seizure. Have you notified the police of her disappearance?”
“Yes, I called them right away. And it was Sergeant Berkowitz who suggested that I tell you about it, too. He said there was something definitely fishy about it, and that you’d be interested in the case.”
Di Cesare scowled fiercely. “Sciagurato! Seeing me leave the record store with a neatly-wrapped album under my arm this afternoon, the brutish Berkowitz must have spent all day devising some means of prying me loose from my phonograph this evening!”
“You’ll help me, then?” Collins said hopefully.
Di Cesare shrugged. “I will finish my meal. Then X will telephone U Berkowitz, and learn why this matter should interest me. And then, jorse, I will be at your service, Signor Collins.”
DI CESARE rushed through his meal, stuffing the meat into his mouth and gulping the wine as though he were eating nothing more important than hamburger, or drinking no finer beverage than soda pop. While we finished, poor Collins was banished to di Cesare’s waiting-room, there to cool his heels and, if he chose, explore di Cesare’s bound volumes of Imago. At length, the meal was concluded. What had promised to be a relaxed evening for two bachelor operaphiles was rapidly turning into yet another frantic exertion in the interests of law and order.
Taking his coffee in three swallows, di Cesare rose from the table, ignoring the cognac Miss Quinlan had thoughtfully placed out for after-dinner delectation. “I will phone the police, amico mio, and get to the root of this. You had best go to my waiting-room and comfort the Collins lad.”
I found Collins pacing nervously up and down the room. He turned on me the moment I entered.
“Dr. Starbuck, do you think di Cesare can find my wife? The police seemed to think he was the only one who could.”
“If your wife can be found,” I said, “di Cesare will go to the ends of the Earth to find her. I hope you realize, though, that he’s sacrificing an evening’s pleasure to help you.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am. And if only he can find Ellie for me.
AT THAT moment, di Cesare strode briskly into the room. His eyes were alight, and he was nervously tugging at his pointed little goatee.
“Well?” I asked.
