Chapter II: Part 2

"Utterly," Reev said. There was no trace of accent in his speech. The clicking Ian McEachern had noticed in the voice of the Monolithian he had spoken to on the phone at Burning Tree was entirely absent, as if they had perfected their study of English.

A Canadian Press man noted that "reeve" is a term his country uses for the president of a village or town council, and asked if there was any significance in the fact that Reev's name was almost identical. Reev looked baffled, but Riddie said it was merely coincidence. The CP man then asked the name of the other Monolithian.

"Jain," he said, spelling it. He added with a smile: "No significance; it's just a name."

A man from Reuters asked if the Monolithians were aware that President Allison had signed a bill making them honorary citizens of the United States.

"We are grateful for that," Reev said. "But I think you will find that the new law bestows full, not honorary, citizenship."

"Are you prepared to live up to the laws of the United States?" an unidentified reporter asked.

"Fully," Reev replied. "And to those of the United Nations. Not only to the letter but to the spirit of the law."

"Do you believe those laws to be fair?"

"The Constitution of the United States and the Charter of the United Nations appear to be the most perfect examples of humanitarian principles we have encountered anywhere in our travels," Reev said. Jain nodded agreement.

"How many of you are there?" an NBC man asked.

"Twelve of us here in New York," Reev said. "An equal number at Burning Tree. Then, of course, there are hundreds of us in each of the mother ships."

"The mother ships? What are they?"

"The craft which actually made the interstellar journey. They are moored, as some of your press accounts have indicated, outside your atmosphere."

"How far out?"

"As far out as the Moon, but exactly opposite it, on the other side of the Earth."

"Is that why we had no warning of your approach from the observatory on the Moon?"

"Probably. That's the way we planned it."

"Are those ships armed?"

"All our craft are armed, but only with defensive weapons. We travel only in peace and molest only those who would molest us."

There was a stir among the reporters, and a man from _Missiles and Rockets Magazine_ asked for a description of the weapons.

"I am afraid that is what you would term classified information. Our representatives and those of your Defense Department and the United Nations Secretariat have scheduled a meeting to discuss possible exchange of information touching on these weapons--which I emphasize are strictly defensive in nature."

"Are you armed personally?" the AP man asked.

"We do not carry concealed weapons, if that's what you mean," Reev said. "But we are capable of defending ourselves against any attack on ourselves or our friends. I don't wish to sound ungrateful, but the elaborate security guard provided for us and your President when he traveled with us was quite superfluous."

"I don't suppose," one of the television men said, "you'd be willing to give us a demonstration of your defense weapon? It'd make quite a graphic picture for the television audience."

"We'd be glad to," Reev said, "if you could suggest a way."

"Well," the TV man said, looking around the room, "I could throw one of these big, glass Waldorf ashtrays at you...."

"Now wait a minute," one of the other reporters said. "We don't want glass shrapnel flying around the room."

"No one will be hurt," Reev said. "You will see. I suggest you focus one of your cameras here." He indicated a spot about two feet in front of his face.

"Okay," the TV man said. He picked up the ashtray, which was a good eight inches in diameter, and hefted it.

"Empty the cigarette butts first, at least," someone said.

The TV man asked Reev: "Ready?"

"Ready."

The TV man let fly. The heavy ashtray sailed directly at Reev's face. About a foot from it, the ashtray appeared to hit, or sink into, an invisible shield. It did not shatter, but seemed to fuse, increasing its diameter but decreasing its thickness. It became the size of a pizza platter, but exceedingly thin. It continued to grow in diameter, becoming fainter and fainter. Then it disappeared completely.

When the hubbub of amazed comment had subsided Reev smiled and said: "Nobody hurt, I trust?"

One of the reporters in the first row said, "No, but I'd swear it's quite a bit hotter up here."

"True. That usually happens when matter is changed into energy."

"Can you be more explicit?"

"Sorry, no."

"Would you have the same protection against a bullet?"

"Entirely the same."

"How much warning do you need to put it into effect?"

"None. It takes effect at the first sight of danger."

"Would it work against a bomb?"

"Yes."

"A _hydrogen_ bomb?"

"Yes."

"Then you're invulnerable."

"Completely."

"Well," a reporter said, "I'm awfully glad you're on our side."

A ripple of nervous laughter went through the crowded room.

5 (JULY 26, SAT.)

It's too hot in New York, or else it's too cold.
But hot or cold--somebody's always pushing you.

--Joe Frisco

Saturday was my day off and Mae and I drove into New York. We had tickets to a matinee. I switched on the car radio.

"Get some music," Mae said.

"I want to see what's on the news."

"Can't you ever relax?"

"I'm relaxed. I don't have to do anything except listen."

"Promise me you won't go into the office," Mae said. "I want to see that play."

"I have no intention of going to the office," I said. "Not unless there's an earthshaker."

"That's what I mean. Let somebody else handle it for a change. You're not the only man who can do the job."

"Listen," I said. "Here's something."

A commentator on one of the independent stations was saying the Monolithians apparently had made a number of secret agreements with the United States and the United Nations. The American public was being kept in the dark about many things they had a right to know. It was obvious from the alien's press conference yesterday that they were being more frank with the public than the people's own government officials. The defense-weapon demonstration to the nation on television was only one example.

I recognized the voice, which continued on a note of agitation:

"Here is a bulletin just handed to me. A Monolithian spokesman disclosed today that the first two-dozen aliens who landed on Earth have been joined by at least two hundred--I repeat, at least two hundred--more.

"This disclosure was made in answer to a question, reinforcing this commentator's belief that our own government is keeping us in the dark about matters of which we have every right to know the true facts."

"As opposed to the false facts?" I muttered, my copy-reader's instincts affronted.

"Shh," Mae said. "Listen!"

"The Monolithians, on the other hand, appear to be willing to answer almost any nonscientific question put to them, giving at least the appearance of candor which our own officials so sadly lack," the commentator went on.

"The question then arises whether it would be truer to say that our government is _allied_ with the aliens, as our officials claim, or whether it is _collaborating_ with them, having capitulated to their unknown military strength in a sort of interplanetary Munich."

Mae gasped.

"Clearly it is the aliens who are acting with confidence, publicizing their movements, while the U.S. government shows a curious unwillingness to keep its own people--you and me--informed. Can it be that the government itself is in the dark about these vitally important matters? Can it be that our own government is acting as the tool of the aliens, having secretly surrendered to a power the like of which this Earth has never known?"

Mae had been listening in mounting alarm. "Do you think he's right?" she asked me. "Is it possible?"

"That's old Clyde Fitchburn, the noted viewer with alarm," I told her. "Don't take him too seriously."

"He can't be making it all up," she said. "Can he?"

"Only about 99 percent of it," I said. "He still hasn't got back to his one little true fact--that two hundred more aliens have landed."

I switched to another station.

"... playing host today to nearly ten times as many aliens as originally landed on Earth," an announcer on one of the network stations was saying.

"Now listen," I said to Mae. "This is news, not an editorial."

"A Monolithian spokesman said the new arrivals--two hundred of them, all male--had landed in a second scout ship, at about midnight, in Central Park, at the northern end of the reservoir.

"The spokesman said in a statement, quote, 'The second contingent arrived in response to the invitation implicit in the law signed yesterday giving the Monolithians U.S. citizenship.' Unquote.

"At nine o'clock this morning, when the stores opened, the Monolithians arrived in a fleet of taxicabs in the midtown area, where they went in separate groups to the different men's clothing stores--Bond, Howard, Ripley, Rogers Peet and Brooks Brothers--and to the men's departments of such department stores as Stern's, Gimbels and Macy's. Here they outfitted themselves in Earth-style clothing, which they charged to the Monolithian Embassy, and left by foot, mingling with the crowds on the sidewalk.

"Dressed like typical New Yorkers, most of them virtually disappeared--that is, they lost their identity as aliens and became indistinguishable from the average male New Yorker.

"The Monolithian spokesman said in answer to a question that their purpose was that of any visitor to New York--to see the sights of the city and become acquainted with its customs."

"There," I said to Mae. "That doesn't sound quite as bad as Fire-Eater Fitchburn's account, does it?"

My wife seemed relieved, but she wouldn't admit it. "They're probably playing it down," she said.

The newscaster said, "Reporters were late on the scene, but if eye witness accounts of passersby are to be believed, the aliens split up into groups of two or three and visited such places as Woolworth's, book stores, movie houses, the Empire State Building, the Planetarium, and took rides on buses and subways."

Mae said, "I'm not sure I'd like it if one of them sat next to us at the play."

"How would you tell?" I asked her.

"I'd know," she said. "Somehow. I'm sure I would."

"Well," I said, "you let me know and we'll interview him at intermission."

We crossed the George Washington Bridge, went down the West Side Highway and found a place to park on Sixth Avenue in the upper thirties. We had half an hour before curtain time and I asked Mae if she would like a drink.

"I think I would," she said. "I seem to have a slight case of the jitters."

We found a quiet place about a block from the theater and sat at the bar in the air-conditioned dimness. I had a Scotch and soda and Mae had a gin and tonic.

"Had any aliens for customers?" I asked the bartender as I paid for the drinks.

"Not so's I noticed," he said. "At least nobody tried to charge it to the Monolithian Embassy. We got a strictly cash trade here."

He went to serve another customer and a well-dressed young man came in and sat down on the vacant stool next to Mae.

"Sam," she whispered, nudging me.

"What?"

"Here's one."

"Where?"

"Right next to me," she whispered. "Look at his clothes. They're brand new."

The bartender went to the new arrival and said, "What'll it be?"

"What do you have?" Mae's neighbor asked.

"Anything you want," the bartender said. "Whiskey, bourbon, Scotch, gin, vodka. Soda, ginger ale, Seven-up. The combinations are limitless."

"I'll have a Scotch and Seven-Up," the stranger said.

The bartender didn't blink an eye. "Yes, sir," he said, and proceeded to blend the two strange ingredients.

"Scotch and Seven-Up!" Mae said to me. "He must be one of them. Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"That's pretty circumstantial evidence," I said.

"Change seats with me, Sam," she said. "I'm getting nervous again."

"Okay," I said. "Want another drink?"

"Definitely." She swallowed the rest of her first one as she slid onto my stool.

"Two more of the same," I told the bartender.

"Coming up," he said. "Right after this Scotch and Seven-Up." He gave me a shrug.

"Say something to him," Mae whispered, meaning my new neighbor at the bar.

"Like what? Shall I ask him what he thinks of American women?"

"You're the newsman," she said. "You ought to know what to ask him."

"This is my day off," I reminded her.

"Go on. Ask him."

"Okay."

I waited till his concoction had been served to him, then said:

"Pretty good drink, Scotch and Seven-Up."

He looked at me in what seemed to be embarrassment. "I don't know, really," he said. "First time I ever had it."

"Stranger in town?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Got in only last night."

"Where from?"

"You wouldn't have heard of the place," he said.

("See! I told you!" Mae whispered.)

"I don't know," I said. "I've heard of lots of places: Medicine Hat, Ephrata, Chestnut Bend, Gallipolis, Moses Lake, Lackawack...."

"None of those," he said, as if he were playing a quiz game. "It's a little place in Missouri called Joplin."

"That's easy. I got my Signal Corps training near there during the war."

"You don't say!"

("Ask him where he got the new suit," Mae persisted.)

"Where'd you get the new suit?" I asked him.

"Bond's," he said. "You know, under the waterfall in Times Square? It looked so cool. They have an artificial waterfall on top of the building. It used to be Pepsi-Cola's."

("Ask him what time," Mae said.)

"What time?"

"About nine o'clock," he said. "When it opened. Why?"

("Why?" I asked Mae.)

("Ask him if he saw the aliens in there then.")

"Did you see the aliens in there then?"

"I saw a bunch of men come in in bearskins or something like," he said. "I thought it was an advertising stunt."

("He thought it was an advertising stunt," I told Mae.)

("Doesn't he listen to the radio?" she asked.)

"Don't you listen to the radio?" I asked him.

"The radio?"

"The aliens from Monolithia were getting outfitted in Bond's at nine A.M., according to the radio," I told him without benefit of Mae.

"Is that who they were? Well, well."

He drank his Scotch and Seven-Up at one gulp, making a face over it, and said, "I've got to get going. I have a ticket for a show at 2:30."

("What show?" Mae asked.)

"What show?" I asked him.

He mentioned the new Rodgers & Hammerstein musical. "I'm meeting my wife there. Would you like to see a picture of her and the kids?" He took out his wallet to show me. In addition to the snapshot I saw his Missouri driver's license and an old draft card.

"Nice-looking family," I said.

"Thanks. Got to run now. My wife has the other ticket and I'm meeting her at the seats. Can't get lost that way, I figure. Pleasure talking to you. You, too, ma'am."

He left and I said to Mae: "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you satisfied he's not an alien?"

"I don't know. How come he's wearing his new suit the same day he bought it? You always have to wait a week or ten days for alterations."

"Maybe he didn't need any alterations and they cuffed the pants while he waited. At least he won't be sitting next to you in the theater."

"How did he get tickets to that? Are you sure you couldn't do any better than the revival of _Where's Charley_?"

"Not on short notice. He probably paid scalper's prices on the expense account. We'd better start."

We left the bar.

"I guess he won't be," Mae said, backing up the conversation in the way she has. "But for my nerves' sake there'd better not be another man in a new suit sitting next to me, even if he has got a good explanation."

"The odds are against it," I said as we stood at the corner of 44th Street and Broadway and waited at the _Don't Walk_ sign. "Just divide two hundred into several million."

The _Walk_ sign flashed on. We were in a group of about fifteen law-abiding pedestrians who started across the street. We had almost reached the other side when somebody yelled, "Look out!"

A big long convertible with a grinning idiot behind the wheel was not only failing to yield the right of way to pedestrians but was making an illegal right turn onto Broadway from the cross street.

I grabbed Mae and hauled her ahead to the curb.

"Damn fool!" I hollered at the driver, who kept on going, blowing his horn.

Everybody scrambled to safety except one young man who hadn't seen or heard, or else had supreme faith in his rights as a pedestrian. The convertible was heading straight at him.

"He'll get hit!" somebody yelled. A traffic cop blew his whistle. A woman screamed. Mae, unable to look, buried her face in my shoulder. The pedestrian never broke his casual stride.

The massive chromed bumper was only inches from him when it began to disintegrate.

First the bumper, then the grille and the oversized fender, then the right front tire dissolved in a shimmering film.

As the tire disappeared, the momentum of the car sent it ahead into what was obviously the protective shield surrounding one of the aliens.

More of the car vanished and it came to a grinding stop, its underside providing the brake as it plowed into the asphalt.

The front of the car, almost clear back to the windshield, simply wasn't there any more. The driver's idiot grin had changed to a look of unbelieving dismay as he stared at the nothingness where his hood used to be.

The young man, who I now saw was wearing a new suit, stepped onto the curb near Mae and me. He paused, looked back for just a moment at the remains of the convertible, and said, as if quoting, "A driver must yield the right of way to a pedestrian crossing with a _Walk_ signal," then lost himself in the crowd.

6 (JULY 27, SUN.)

ALIEN, _n._ An American sovereign in his probationary state.

--Ambrose Bierce

It's pretty complicated to explain why a person who lives in New York State, as I do, has to go through New Jersey to get home from his office in New York City. It has to do with (1) the way New York's border slopes northwest from the city and (2) a straight line being the shortest distance between two points. People who half-grasp these phenomena remain convinced that my village, High Tor, N.Y., is a short drive from any old place in New Jersey.

John Hyatt, demon respecter of facts though he ordinarily is, was one of those so deluded when he called me on the telephone on Sunday morning and asked me if I'd mind taking a run over to Middle Valley, N.J.

"I'm aware it's your day off, Sam," John said, "but this is practically on your doorstep and I know you'd feel hurt if we didn't ask you to cover it personally."

This, of course, was the well-known malarky, but I told him, "I'm the original busman, John, but maybe you'd better fill me in. Just what is going on in Middle Valley, of all places?"

"It's these damn aliens, Sam. Incidentally, I want to thank you for phoning in that eyewitnesser yesterday on the jaywalker. I hear you missed the first act of the play on account of it, but it was a damn fine story and we appreciate it."

It had been a jaydriver, not a jaywalker, but I didn't correct him. "Think nothing of it, John. It'll all show up on my overtime slip."

He laughed. Not without pain, it seemed to me. World Wide is in a perennial economy drive and the word _overtime_ is not one you use lightly in the business office. "We never boggle where a good story is concerned," John said. "You know that. And this Middle Valley thing--well, you're aware, I'm sure, that they've got this local blue law banning Sunday employment...."

Middle Valley, N.J., is a good hour's drive from High Tor, N.Y. It's less than twenty minutes via the Lincoln Tunnel from New York City, but I knew John would think I was being uncooperative if I mentioned it. I didn't argue with him. I told Mae I was on overtime, got in the Volkswagen and went.

* * * * *

New Jersey passed a law some years ago aimed at forcing Sunday closing on a group of merchants who sold used cars and major appliances in a string of roadside stores along well-traveled Route 17, which runs between New York City and the Catskill Mountain resorts. The idea was to protect the community merchant from this competition so he could have a day off. But the legislation was too broad and bogged down in courts. Its opponents charged, among other things, that it was discriminatory. What about the Jewish merchant, they asked, who religiously closed his place of business on Saturday, his Sabbath? Was he to be penalized by having to close on two days a week, while the Christian merchant closed only on one?

While the state law was being appealed, its opponents obtained an injunction and Sunday business continued. Some communities who had liked the state law during the brief time it was being enforced then passed local ordinances. Middle Valley was one such community with its own Sunday closing law.

Middle Valley is a residential, fairly well-to-do, predominantly Christian village of about 3,000 people. It has few stores, most of its residents doing their shopping in nearby towns. It does, however, have a drug store, a delicatessen, a gas station, a newsstand and a local milkman. The village fathers decreed that the strict law meant all these must close on Sunday.

No one objected except the druggist, the delicatessen owner (who had closed on Saturday for years), the newsdealer and the milkman. The citizens of Middle Valley found it not too inconvenient to order extra milk on Saturday to tide them over the week end, and they rather enjoyed driving a couple of miles to pick up the Sunday papers. It was a mark of distinction to live in the village that permitted no paid Sunday employment.

"Middle Valley's shut up tighter'n a drum today," the well-to-do, car-owning, Christian citizen could remark with pride as he paid for his paper across the village line.

The few who didn't own cars had to walk as far as two miles to catch the buses whose drivers were not allowed to stop in Middle Valley. No one asked them if they enjoyed their walks, especially on rainy Sundays.

Some of this I knew and some John Hyatt filled me in on. I learned a lot more after I got there, first having checked my gas to be sure I wouldn't be marooned there till Monday.

I parked near the center of town, in front of the delicatessen. Down the block were the newsdealer's, the drug store and a couple of real estate-and-insurance offices. All were closed.

I introduced myself to the man standing in front of the delicatessen. He told me his name:

"Simon Dorfman. This is my store. I closed it Friday at sundown. Religious reasons. I can't open today. Monkey business reasons. I'm thinking of opening today regardless. I'm considering it this minute. But I'm also considering ninety days in jail and $200 fine."

"Who would arrest you if you opened?" I asked him.

"Who? The cops. Who else?"

"Middle Valley police?"

"Joe Lyman and Fred Moffat. I've known them since they were boys. But they'd arrest me. They said so. It's not their fault."

"Then who would arrest them?" I asked Dorfman.

"What do you mean arrest them?"

"Aren't they paid employees? If you can't work on Sunday, how can they?"

He thought that over. "What's sauce for the goose, eh?"

"Why not?"

"But you're a reporter. You don't care if I get arrested as long as you get a story. Maybe I'll talk it over with my friend Hirsch the druggist."

"Let me know what you decide, Mr. Dorfman," I said. "I'll be around."

"Good. But listen. You want a real story? Go down two blocks that way and one to your left."

"What's there?"

"The Middle Valley Congregational Church. I don't want you to think I'm laughing at somebody else's religion, because I don't do that, but go down and see for yourself. Those men are there--from the spaceship. An interesting situation."

So that's where they were. I left him saying to himself, "Sauce for the gander. Why not?"

John Hyatt had said some Monolithians were in Middle Valley but he didn't know why. He imagined they were sight-seeing and he obviously hoped for something better. I was beginning to have the same hunch he must have had.

There was a crowd of about a hundred outside the Congregational Church. Most of the people appeared to be parishioners--well-dressed, upper-middle-class men and women. Their late-model cars were parked along the tree-shaded street. I squeezed my Volkswagen in among them.

A separate group of well-dressed people--all young men--stood outside the main entrance of the ivy-covered stone church. The minister was with them, talking heatedly. I made my way through gaps in the crowd of parishioners, who seemed anxious for some settlement to be reached but unwilling to become involved.

"... blasphemy," the minister was saying. His name, according to the outside bulletin board, was the Rev. James Lonsway Marchell.

"Not at all, Mr. Marchell," one of the young men said. "It's merely a question of law."

"God's law has called my flock to worship. Man's law shall not keep them from their devotions."

"Certainly not," the young man said. He was speaking fluent, unaccented English. "We have no quarrel with their wish to honor their deity in whatever way they choose. But you, Mr. Marchell, as a paid employee of this church, may not, under law, work on Sunday."

"Work!" the minister exclaimed. "It is the Lord's work I do!"

"But for a salary paid by men. You have admitted that to be a fact."

"By what right--" the minister said--"by what abrogation of authority do you come from millions of miles away to interfere in the affairs of this quiet, respectable, law-abiding village?"

"The very fact, sir, that you have chosen not to abide by the law has brought us here," the leader of the Monolithian group said. "We have solemnly sworn to uphold the laws of this country, and therefore the laws of each of its parts. We should be shirking our obligations to our adopted nation if we did less."

"You pervert the law--you mock it. You are heretics. Worse, you are the devil's henchmen. I have tried long enough to reason with you. Now stand aside. Again I tell you--I mean to enter my church!"

The minister started for the door but one of the Monolithians was there ahead of him. I was half afraid I was going to see Marchell start to disappear, but obviously the aliens had a variation on their protective weapon. The minister wanted to enter his church, not to harm anyone, and the shield took the form of a pliant, invisible wall that prevented Marchell from even hurting himself as he walked into it, apparently for the second time at least.

He was bounced back, staggering. Regaining his balance, he turned to address his parishioners:

"My friends, I have done all I can. I shall go now to my study and in solitude pray for guidance. These--creatures--I cannot call them men--have said you may worship as you choose. I invite those of you who wish to do so to enter this house of God and pray...."

The Monolithian at the door stood aside but fewer than a dozen of the congregation went in.

I considered talking to the Monolithians, but decided I'd better file a story first on what I had. I figured there'd be time to talk to them later. It looked like a long and memorable Sunday for Middle Valley.

I drove off to look for a telephone, hoping the village used the dial system and didn't depend on an illegal paid operator.

* * * * *

I found an outdoor telephone booth at the closed gas station. A young man was lounging next to it. He stepped in front of me as I reached to push open the door.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You must be one of the aliens," I said, though from his appearance he could have been anyone.

"A U.S. Monolithian citizen, at your service," he said, smiling but continuing to bar my way. "Tate is my name."

"Kent's mine," I said. "I'm with World Wide. Just let me phone in my story, then I'd like to talk to you."

"I know who you are," he said. "But you may not telephone. It's the law."

"Look," I said, "it's ten to one Middle Valley doesn't have a telephone office. The call will go through Newark or someplace. Nobody in Middle Valley would be doing anything illegal."

"No," he said, "but you would."

"Oh, come on!" I was shocked. "_I_ don't live here. I'm just a New York reporter. I work for an international news organization. You must have heard of freedom of the press!"

Tate smiled and shook his head. "Mr. Kent, the law may be stupid but it is explicit. No paid employment of any kind is permitted in Middle Valley."

"Sure, sure," I said. "But what's it to you? This will be publicity for you. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"You misunderstand our motives, Mr. Kent. We are your good interplanetary neighbors, repaying your hospitality by observing all your laws, as we are sure you would if you were to visit our country."

"What you're really trying to do," I told him, "is to reduce us to absurdity."

"Don't put words in my mouth, Mr. Kent. Remember when you do dictate your story--and I believe the village border is a mere half-mile away--remember that you said that, not I."

"Half a mile? Come with me, will you? How did you know who I was?"

"I'll join you gladly. Mr. Dorfman told me about you."

He climbed into the car and I phoned the desk from a drug store in the neighboring community of Valley Center, N.J. The store was doing a thriving business in Sunday papers, ice-cream sodas, hot coffee, cigarettes and other typical druggist's goods.

I gave John Hyatt his story heavy on the quotes, the way he likes them, adding a bit about my own encounter with the Monolithian. He made me spin it out at length for a sidebar. I didn't tell him Tate was standing just outside the booth, listening to every word. I was afraid John would have interviewed the hell out of him, keeping me hanging around all day.

I came out of the booth, perspiring from its closeness. "How about a coke?" I asked Tate. "We won't get one back in Middle Valley."

"Good idea," he said. We sat at a table and a waitress took our order.

"That a Bond suit?" I asked the alien. "Two pair of pants?"

"Simon Ackerman," he said, smiling. "One pair."

"Then you're not one of the original dozen from Burning Tree."

"No. I'm one of the Central Park unit."

"How do you like it here? What do you think of Earth-women?" I figured I might as well get it asked and over with.

"Very tempting," Tate said. "Remember, we've been a long time enroute."

"How long?"

"Three years."

The cokes came, in tall glasses, heavily iced, with straws.

"What would you do to a vending machine that sold an illegal coke?" I asked Tate.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind. I'm glad you didn't put the whammy on me back there at the gas station. I saw what your pal did to that convertible in Times Square."

"Did you?" He beamed. "Quite an example, wasn't it? It was a pleasure to uphold that law."

"Rough on the car, but the idiot had it coming. Do you mean you're not enjoying what you're doing in Middle Valley?"

"There are degrees," he said, taking a sip of his coke. "It was a pity Mr. Marchell was prevented from holding his service. We are not antireligious, as he asserted in the heat of his anger."

"He was prevented by your people," I reminded him.

"By our people upholding local law," he insisted.

I decided he wasn't quibbling, and said, "Let's get back to where you came from. You said you were three years on the way. Did you know where you were going when you started?"

"Oh, yes. Earth. Sol's third planet. You invited us in 1945."

"Invited you?"

"So to speak. That was Earth's Atomic Year One, you will recall."

"You mean you detected the first explosion?"

"We detect them all. You were the fourth known planet to achieve that level of development. We believe we were the second, in Monolithia."

"The second?" I asked. "Did the people from the first one visit you?"

"The first planet failed to see the potentialities for evil. It destroyed itself. When we had achieved space travel we visited its remains. It was a graphic example to us. We determined then that human life was too rare a commodity to be squandered."

"You think we're too infantile to prevent our own destruction?"

"We think you need guidance. We got it second-hand from Planet I. We were too late to help Planet III. You're IV."

"You mean Planet III destroyed itself, too?"

"So to speak. It's a dead world. Planets II and IV--Monolithia and Earth--are the only advanced worlds left. It's our duty to preserve them."

"What do you mean 'so to speak'?" I asked him. "What do you mean 'advanced'?" I was making full notes and Tate had been watching me fill page after page of copy paper.

He finished his coke. "I've said enough for now." He sounded adamant, and to keep him from drying up entirely I switched the subject slightly:

"How come you speak such good English?"

"English, Japanese, Monolithian, Tildonian (that was one of Planet III's languages)--they're all human tongues. It's merely a matter of adaptation. We don't click any more, you notice. That's a Monolithian trait, but easily de-emphasized."

I scribbled away and he watched me tolerantly, sucking on a piece of ice.

"You know I'm going to quote you. How shall I describe you? As a Monolithian spokesman?"

"If you like. We're all spokesmen. We have--to use a diplomatic phrase, but an accurate one--an identity of views on this urgent matter. Shall we go?"

I sensed that he had dried up.

"I'd pay for the cokes," he said, "but it seems too small an amount to charge to the Monolithian Embassy."

I dropped two dimes at the cashier's counter.

We heard sirens as I drove back into Middle Valley. Smoke was climbing into the sky. I traced it to a burning house and parked a block away. Tate and I ran to the edge of the crowd watching the fire.

"It's the Waddell house," somebody said. It was a big house probably worth about fifty thousand. The smoke was billowing out of a room at the back.

"Who's Waddell?" I asked.

Tate knew. "He's president of the village council. As a matter of fact, he's chiefly responsible for the Sunday closing law."

"That's great," I said, making notes again. "What a story! And now his house is going to burn down because it's against the law to put the fire out. What's his first name?"

"Everett."

A fire engine screamed around a corner and men jumped from it, trailing a hose behind them. Other equipment followed. Within a minute the hose was attached to a hydrant and water was pouring on the fire.

"Hey!" I said to Tate. "What's the idea? Why aren't you stopping them? They're working in Middle Valley on Sunday, aren't they? Aren't they paid employees just like the minister and me?"

"No," the alien said. "Unfortunately for your story and your fine sense of irony, these are not paid employees. They're volunteer firemen."

7 (JULY 28, MON.)

Never speak loudly to one another unless the house is on fire.

--Harold William Thompson

I'd got home pretty late, but the alarm clock went off at six, as usual, on Monday morning. It's at this time of day that I envy my city-dwelling brothers who can get up an hour later and reach their offices at the same time I do. Mae and I had bought a house in High Tor in preparation for the baby, who was scheduled to be born in late November. ("Beautiful timing," our tax accountant once said, thinking of the exemption which would be good for the entire year.)

I rescued the dew-soaked _New York Times_ from the lawn. Its main headline, across four columns, said:

ALIENS KEEP PREACHER FROM PULPIT,
CITING VILLAGE'S SUNDAY WORK BAN

The radio newscasts were hitting it hard, too. I listened to them as I brewed a pot of coffee.

Mae shuffled into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed, in her housecoat. "Why didn't you wake me up?" she asked.

"You have to sleep for two now," I told her.

"Nonsense," she said, giving me a kiss and looking at the front page. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Eggs, sunny-side up, covered with Pep." You break the yolk and the Pep absorbs it.

"We don't have any Pep. How about corn flakes?"

"They're too big," I said. "You know that."

"I'm sure I'll never learn the fine points of these little mealtime foibles of yours. You want bread under the eggs then?"

"Obviously," I said. It's not obvious at all, of course, but Mae is very teasable.

"Honestly, Sam," she said as she buttered the frying pan, "you could let a little yolk run on the plate. I don't mind washing it off. You're not a bachelor any more, you know."

"I know that very well," I said. It isn't the washing so much as the waste that bothers me. I think occasionally of the tons of dried egg yolks being scraped into the garbage every morning and it gives my frugal soul the willies. "How's Junior today?"

"He's very happy. Not a peep out of her." Mae changes its sex with every reference to keep an open mind on the subject. She even occasionally refers to it in the plural just in case. "You don't think our children are going to suffer from these aliens, do you? I mean they're not going to have to live in oppression under the heel of the invader, are they?"

"Where did you get _that_, for God's sake?"

"On the radio last night before you came home. It was that Clyde Witchburn. You know."

"Clyde Fitchburn. Don't listen to him. Listen to Ed Murrow or Eric Sevareid. Listen to me. But don't let that doom-shouter Fitchburn give you nightmares. It's not good for Junior."

"All right, Sam. You like the aliens, don't you?"

"I like the few I've met personally, but that doesn't mean I approve of everything they do or are capable of doing. I don't think they plan to grind us under the heel, though."

"Well, they're up to something. They didn't come all this way just to obey a lot of funny laws and get people's danders up. We must have something they want."

"Maybe we've got something they don't want," I said.

"Why would they land here, then?"

"To keep us from exporting it, now that we're on our way to the stars."

"Like what? Germs?"

"Sort of. Uncontrolled radiation, maybe."

Mae slid the eggs from the pan onto the two pieces of bread on my plate. She poured coffee for each of us and said, "Eat, now. It's six-thirty."

So it was. I was out of the house in ten minutes. I bought a _Herald Tribune_ before I got on the bus, leaving the _Times_ for Mae. The Trib had a righteous editorial headed "Abuse of Hospitality." I skimmed through it. It said about what you might expect. Lippmann wasn't in the paper that day and Alsop was discussing something else.

I folded the paper and wriggled around in the seat. Buses are like candy bars, I thought. The price goes up and the size goes down. Each new bus seemed to have less leg room and a lower headrest than its predecessor, so that you had to be a contortionist to take a nap.

I had found a reasonably comfortable position when two men got on, took the seats behind me and continued a discussion they'd been having about the aliens.

"I told Alice they'd better not fool around with the church in our town."

"Damn right."

"I said you can go so far, but some things you just don't fool around with."

"You said it."

"I told her, 'Alice,' I said, 'you mark my words, just let them try in Old Corners what they did in Middle Valley and there'll be trouble'."

"What did she say?"

"She agreed a hundred per cent, of course. Now I'm not a fellow who goes every week--you know; but Easter, maybe Palm Sunday, and Christmas--but by God some things are sacred.

"I tell you I got so mad when I saw that on the television. If that's the way things can happen, I told Alice, I said, 'Listen, if this is what they expect us to put up with, believe me, they've got another think coming.' You don't just take something like that sitting down."

"I should say not. Why, I said the same thing to----"

"I mean there's a limit. I don't pay much attention to what goes on at the UN--I don't suppose anybody does--but when it gets as close as this, I tell you, things have come to a pretty pass, my friend, a pretty pass indeed."

"They sure have, I told Virginia--"

"I'll bet you did. It's a crying shame when a bunch of fancy Dans from Lord knows where can walk in on us and try to upset the things we hold sacred...."

This stimulating conversation must have put me to sleep because the next thing I knew somebody was tapping me on the shoulder and saying, "Last stop, Mac."

I said thanks and got out.

A bar on Eighth Avenue had a new banner up over its door. "Welcome Monolithans," it said. My copy-reader's eye noted the misspelling. Nobody inside looked fancy enough to be one of the alien Dans.

The teletypes were clattering away at World Wide. The summer doldrums were sure over.

"'Morning, Sam," the copy boy said. "How about some coffee?"

"'Morning, Herb," I said. "That's the first intelligent remark I've heard in some time."

"Heavy on the milk?"

"That's right--Earth-style."

Charlie Price was pecking away at the typewriter.

"'Morning, Charlie. What's doing?"

"Somebody called up from an outfit called the Society for the Prevention of Alien Domination of Earth. Ever hear of it?"

"No, but the initials spell 'spade.' Are you sure it wasn't some bright P.R.O. for a playing-card company?"

"Never thought of that, but it could be. There's something in it about digging in and holding the line. I'll finish it and leave it for you."

"Good." Herb brought my coffee and I sat down to read the file.

"John Hyatt's in already," Charlie said.

"Already? He was on the desk yesterday, too. He must be alien-happy."

"How'd you make out in Middle Valley? I saw you got a byline."

"Well, I didn't get a chance to put any expense money in the collection plate," I said.

Charlie didn't answer that and I wondered if I'd offended him. I went back to reading the file.

I had barely taken over from Charlie when John Hyatt came into the news room. "Hi, Sam," he said. "I've been on the phone with Riddie. She was about as informative as an AEC handout, but I gather something's up. I'll take the desk again today. The Chicago crowd'll be in soon to help here. I'd like you and Stew to shoot up to the Waldorf. I don't know what's cooking but I suspect the aliens may be in a flap over their shenanigans yesterday. Nice story, incidentally. It got splashed all over Europe, according to the play report."

"Good. And thanks for the byline."

"You deserved it. Sometimes I wonder why we're wasting you on the desk."

"I like the regular hours," I said.

"Well, it looks as if regular hours are going to be out the window for the duration."

"Where is Stew?"

"He'll be in at nine. You make a good team, you and Stew. I've noticed that. I'd like you to keep as much of an eye on Riddie as on the Monolithians, if you can. I suspect that little gal knows a lot more about what's going on than she pretends. Get her off in a corner and pump her, if you can."

"Shall I bring flowers?"

I meant it sarcastically, but John said, "She's not the bouquet type, but Head Office has authorized extraordinary expenses for this story. The sky's the limit. Make love to her, if you can stand it, but find out what the hell is cooking."

Nancy Corelli had been all ears. "You never authorized him to make love to me on the expense account," she told John. "We could have had some high old times."

"I'm shocked, Nan," said John, who hadn't been shocked since he climbed a high tension pole as a kid in ought-eight. "You're a married woman."

"Sam's married, too, don't forget," Nancy said. "And here you are egging him on to go to bed with that old broad."

"Just a figure of speech, Mrs. Corelli. Suppose you let us old trenchcoat boys cover the story and you concentrate on sending it to London."

Nancy accepted the rebuke in her own fashion. "I'm glad I have an honest job, at least," she said.

Stew Macon came in. "I see by the daily press there have been a number of developments since I left the shop last Friday," he said to John and me. "Good morning, Nancy."

"Don't talk to them, Stew," Nancy said. "They'll corrupt you, the old lechers."

"Now what's this all about?" Stew asked.

"Tell you in the taxi," I said. "Don't take your coat off. We're on detached service."

"Good enough. But I hope you have a big cash reserve, Sam. I happen to have spent--and I use the term advisedly--a very expensive week end."

"Keep in touch," John said. "There are two of you, so let's have a phone call every so often even if nothing's doing."

I filled Stew in as the cab driver wended us uptown.

"I wasn't kidding about being broke, Sam. This little babe I met had very expensive tastes."

"I'm good for about thirty bucks," I said. "Then I'll have to get a refill from petty cash."

"There's nothing petty about cash," Stew said.

* * * * *

Eurydice Playfair's suite was crowded to its expensive walls with reporters, State Department people, Pentagon people--including some high brass in uniform--and waiters. A bar was set up along one wall.

"At this hour of the morning?" I asked her.

"It's there for them as wants it," Riddie said. She was drinking coffee herself.

There didn't seem to be any Monolithians present yet, but then no one could tell for sure. I asked Riddie.

"No," she said. "We're saving them for the floor show."

"Something big?"

"I didn't lay on this spread just to say hello."

"Do they know what's going to happen?" I said, meaning the U.S.A. contingent from Washington.

"No, they're just liaison. But, believe me, they're fairly perishing to know."

"Whatever it is, will it make them gasp in the Ginza?" I asked.

"Sam," she said, "this'll pierce them in the Place Pigalle."

"Ah," I said, "but will it crush them in the Kremlin?"

"I have no more to say right now. Why don't you have some coffee?"

"I think I'll have a weak little Scotch and soda, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not the same as coffee, that's for sure."

A man from the _Journal-American_ took her away and I went to the bar. Stew was already there with a glass of something that was neither small nor weak.

"Did you pump her, Sam?" he asked.

"She's a dry well."

"I have circumnavigated the room and there is nothing. Sealed are the lips. Or blank are the minds, I don't know which."

"You sound as if you've been talking to the man from _Time_. Give John a call, will you, Stew? He might want a little color story."

"He always wants a little color story." He went off to one of the two-dozen telephones Riddie had provided.

I asked the barman to weaken up my drink with more soda. Caterers are always very generous with the customer's whiskey.

Riddie got up on a chair at the end of the room and clapped her hands.

"I guess everybody's here," she said. "I've asked you to come here this morning, ladies and gentlemen, to meet two other members of the ambassadorial staff from Monolithia. They will enter through this door on my right in a moment. Before they do, you may wish to make a note of their names. They are Mr. Quy--spelled Q-u-y but pronounced 'Key'--and Mr. Brown."

Stew, back from the telephone, whispered, "Have you noticed how all of them have one-syllable names?"

I nodded as I wrote them down.

Somebody asked Riddie, "Would it be correct to assume that these gentlemen hold a higher position in the Monolithian government than the ones we've previously met?"

"Not at all," Riddie said. "Everyone in Monolithia is equal. Each has the rank of Ambassador."

"But," the questioner persisted, "maybe these new ones intend to apologize for the incidents of yesterday in Middle Valley."

"Certainly not," Riddie said. "The Ambassadors who visited Middle Valley acted in complete accordance with the law. There is not the slightest doubt in any Monolithian mind on that score."

"So much for John Hyatt's hunch," I muttered.

Stew spoke up. "Would you say, Riddie, that there was complete and unanimous support for the Middle Valley delegation among the Monolithians?"

"Yes, I would. To them, laws were made to be obeyed."

"How about the groundswell of protest ..." somebody else started to ask, but Riddie raised her hands.

"Please," she said. "What happened yesterday has no connection with this meeting. In fact, I think you'll have a bigger story today if you'll just let me get on with it. I'll now ask the Ambassadors I've named to step into the room."

The door opened. The two men came in. They were dressed in the same conservative style as their predecessors. But their faces were different. Mr. Quy was an Oriental. Mr. Brown was a Negro.

* * * * *

I'd dictated my story and turned the phone over to Stew to elaborate on it. Riddie came over carrying two drinks. She handed one to me. "It's not weak this time," she said. "I figured you could use it."

"Thanks," I said, taking a good swallow.

"Well, Sam," she said. "Is this a story or isn't it? Do you think it'll fracture them in France?"

"Baby," I told her, "you're too far out. This will lay them low in Little Rock!"

8 (JULY 29, TUES.)

Scientists have reached general agreement in
recognizing that mankind is one: that all men
belong to the same species, _Homo sapiens_.

--UNESCO Statement on Race, 1950

We'd already had the highlights of the Mount Pelley story from the local wire service but it had left a number of questions unanswered. I looked in the stringer book to see who we had in Mississippi. To my surprise I found that we had a Mr. Elbert Patterson right in Mount Pelley. I sent him a wire asking for at least a thousand words, with good color and quotes. His story was on my desk in less than two hours. Here it is:

Mount Pelley, Miss., July 29.--The bus driver said, "Move to the
back of the bus." When the Negro passenger failed to obey, the
driver shouted at him: "That's a white man's seat you're in,
nigger. Get back where you belong or I'll throw you off."

The Negro, a neatly dressed man of about thirty, carrying a
briefcase, replied quietly, "This is an interstate bus. Under
Federal law I have a right to sit where I please."

Eleven other passengers were on the bus, which was due to pass
through this town on its way to Biloxi. Six were whites. The
other five Negroes sat without objection in the rear section,
traditionally reserved in this state for "colored."

The Negro man who refused to move was sitting alone in a double
seat three rows back from the door. He turned and looked out the
window.

His attitude infuriated the driver, Merle Cagle, who pulled the bus
to the side of the road, slammed on the brakes and strode down the
aisle.

"I'll give you one last chance, black boy," Cagle said. "Move back
or get off."