  Frank Corson entered the office of Wilson Maynard, Superintendent of Park Hill Hospital. Maynard looked out over the tops of his old-fashioned pince-nez glasses and said, "Oh, Doctor Corson. You phoned for a chat." It was the rather pompous superintendent's way of saying he was happy to give Frank Corson a little time. He considered all the doctors and nurses at Park Hill his "boys and girls," and he did the "father" bit very well. "Yes, I—" Maynard peered even harder. "You don't look well, Frank. Pale. You've been working too hard." "Nothing important, Doctor Maynard." "Sit down. Will you have a cigarette?" "No, thank you. I just wanted to ask you about a transfer." "A transfer!" This was amazing. "Aren't you happy at Park Hill?" "I've been very happy." Maynard went swiftly through a card file on his desk. "You have—let's see—five more months of internship. Then—" "Then I'd planned to enter private practice. But something personal has come up and I think a change is for the best." "I'm certainly sorry to hear that." "One of the men I graduated with went to a hospital in a small Minnesota town. We've corresponded and he's "But we need them here in the East, too." "I realize that, and I'm making the move with some regret. But, frankly, New York City no longer appeals to me. I think perhaps a small hospital is more suited to my temperament." "I'm certainly sorry to hear this, Corson. But I won't try to dissuade you. Normally, I might bring a little more personal pressure to bear, but I sense that your mind is made up. We're sorry to see you go, but the best of luck to you." "Thank you, sir." After Frank Corson left, Superintendent Maynard sorted a memo out of the pile on his desk. The memo concerned Frank Corson. Superintendent Maynard reread it and thought how well things usually worked out. Now it wouldn't be necessary to have that talk with Corson about sloppy work. Obviously there had been something on the young intern's mind for weeks now. Too bad. But let the Minnesota hospital, wherever it was, worry about the trouble and perhaps put Corson on the right track again. He was their baby now. Maynard took Corson's card from the files and wrote across it: Transfer approved with regret. Brent Taber stood in the shelter of a doorway on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and watched an entrance across the street. He had been there for over an hour. Another hour passed and Taber shifted from one aching foot to the other as a man in a blue suit emerged from the entrance and moved off down the street. When the man had turned a corner, Taber crossed over and looked up at the brownstone. It was a perfect place to hide—one of the many rooming houses in the city where, if you paid your rent and kept your peace, no one cared who you were or where you came from. Not even, Taber reflected, if you had been born in a laboratory and had come from someplace among the stars. He climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the knob. The door opened. He went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnished with an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail. There was a bell on the table. He tapped it and, after a lazy length of time, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regarded him with no great show of cordiality. "Nothing vacant, mister. Everything I've got is rented." "I wasn't looking for a room. I'm just doing a little checking." "My license is okay," the woman said belligerently. "The place is clean and orderly." "That's not what I'm checking about. There's been some counterfeit money passed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down." The woman had a pronounced mustache that quivered at this news. "Counterfeit! My roomers are honest." "I'm sure they are. But some people carry counterfeit money without knowing it. Do they all pay in cash?" "Only two of them." "Men or women?" "One girl—Katy Wynn." "Where does she work?" "Down in Wall Street." "Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up around Times Square." "The other's a man—quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot every week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no counterfeiter." Taber took a forward step. "What's his room number?" "Six—on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out." "Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We're just checking for sources." Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her own quarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for a minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she did The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window was small and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned on the light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest—the room was ordinary in every sense. But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent. There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversized suitcase, stood on end. And jammed neatly down behind it was the body of Les King. His throat had been cut. Brent Taber stared down into the closet for what seemed like an interminable time. His eyes were bleak and his mouth was grim and stiff as he passed a slow hand along his jaw. He took a long, backward step and closed his eyes for a moment as though hoping the whole improbable mess would go away. But it was still there when he opened them again. He turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on the wall by the front door. The shapeless landlady came out again. She scowled at Taber. "What are you doing here?" He regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "Have you got a dime, lady?" Gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin. "Thanks much." He dialed. "Is Captain Abrams there?" There was a wait, during which Brent Taber asked the oddly bemused landlady: "Are you afraid of the dead?" But before she could decide whether she was or not, Taber turned to the phone. "Captain?.... That's right, Brent Taber ... No, right, here in Manhattan. There's been a little trouble. You'd better come over personally." He turned to the landlady. "What's the address here, sister?" And later, with the landlady back in her lair, Brent Mostly, he thought, it was the simplification that had come about. There had been so many confusing and bewildering complications in the affair; improbability piled on the impossible; the ridiculous coupled with the incredible. But now, with one stroke of a knife, it had been simplified and brought into terms everyone could understand; into terms Captain Abrams of the New York Police Department would grasp in an instant. A killer was on the loose. One of Senator Crane's priceless gifts was a sense of timing. Much of his success had sprung from the instinctive knowledge of when to act. He had a sense of the dramatic which never deserted him. As a result, he had been known to turn in an instant from one subject to another—to dodge defeats and score triumphs with bewildering agility. His preoccupation on this particular day was with a home-state issue—the location of a government plant. After he obtained the floor, he counted the house and noted that only a bare quorum was present. Gradually, the members of the Senate of the United States would drift to their seats. So Crane began reading letters which tended to support his state's claim to the new plant and the benefits that would accrue therefrom. Crane droned on. The Vice-President of the United States looked down on the top of Senator Crane's massive head and became fruitfully preoccupied with thoughts of his own. Then, quite suddenly, the line of Crane's exposition changed. The Vice-President wasn't quite sure at what precise point this had come about. He wasn't aware of the change until some very strange words penetrated: " ... so, therefore, it has become starkly apparent that the American people have been denied the information The Vice-President tensed. Had the stupid idiot gone mad? Or had he, the Vice-President, been in a fog when vital, top-secret information had been made public? He banged the gavel down hard, for want of a better gesture, and was grateful when a tall, dignified man with a look of deepest concern on his face rose from behind his desk out on the floor. "Will the Senator yield to his distinguished colleague from Pennsylvania?" Crane turned, scowling. "I will yield to no man on matters of grave import." With that he turned and continued with his revelations. "The people of this nation have been deprived of the knowledge that the invasion from space has already begun. A vanguard of hideous, half-human creatures have even now achieved a beach-head on our planet. Even now, the evil hordes from beyond the stars ..." The Vice-President looked around in a daze. Had someone forgotten to brief him? Had that project come to a head overnight? The last he'd heard there had been much doubt as to— " ... The injustice perpetrated on the American people in this matter has been monstrous. And this is not because of any lack of knowledge on the part of the government. It has been because of the petty natures of the men to whom this secret has been entrusted. Jealousies have dictated policy where selfless public service was of the most vital importance ..." The floor was filling up. The visitor's gallery was wrapped in hushed silence. Newsmen, informed of sensational developments, were rushing down corridors. And the Vice-President was wondering why he hadn't had the good sense to refuse the nomination. " ... These invaders from another planet are not strangers to the men in power. It is on record that they are inhuman monsters capable of killing without mercy—yet they are quite ordinary in appearance. They walk the streets, unsuspected, among us. It is on record right here in Washington that these creatures are not human "Will the Senator yield to the Senator from Alabama?" "I will not. I refuse to be gagged in the process of acquainting the American people with facts upon which their very survival depends." The floor was crowded now. The press and the visitors' galleries were packed as Senator Crane's words continued to boom forth. And in the press gallery a reporter from the Sioux City Clarion looked at a representative of the London Times, and said, "Good God! He's gone off his rocker!" The Englishman, aloof but definitely enthralled, touched his mustache delicately and answered, "Quite." Frank Corson rang the bell and waited at the door of Rhoda Kane's apartment. The door opened. She wore a pale blue brunch coat. Her hair glowed in the light of midmorning, but her face was pale and a little drawn. Her eyes were slightly red, as though she might have been crying. "Hello, Rhoda." "Hello, Frank." "I really didn't expect to find you. I was going to write a note and slip it under the door." "I didn't feel well today so I didn't go to work." "May I come in?" "Of course." Inside, a shadow of concern moved like a quick cloud across her beautiful face. "You don't look well, Frank." "I'm quite all right, really. Haven't been sleeping too well, but there's been a lot on my mind." "I've been hoping you'd phone." "I wanted to but there didn't seem to be anything to say. Nothing except that I'm sorry I let you down so miserably." "Frank! You didn't. You really didn't. It was just that—oh, it's not important any more." "No. It's not important now." "Would you like a drink?" "Thanks, no. I've come to say good-bye." "Good-bye?" "Yes. I'm leaving Park Hill—leaving New York. I'm going into a small Minnesota hospital to finish my internship. Then I'll probably practice out there somewhere." Behind the new glitter of her eyes there was stark misery. "Frank—Frank—what went wrong with us?" The appeal was a labored whisper. "I don't know, Rhoda. I should know but I don't. I should have known what was wrong so I could have done something about it. It just went sour, I guess." She turned and walked to the window. He wondered if there were tears in her eyes. "Good-bye, Rhoda." "Good-bye, Frank. I'm sorry." The door hadn't quite closed. Now, as Frank Corson turned, he found it open. A man stood there—a man in a blue suit with empty eyes. Frank stared at the man for long seconds. His eyes went toward the window. Rhoda had turned. She was watching the man in the doorway, looking past Frank at the creature from somewhere in space who was neither man nor machine. But how—? Frank Corson asked himself the question. Good God! How had this thing come about? "Not—not him," he finally exploded. Rhoda was walking forward. The look of fevered excitement was in her eyes. "Please leave, Frank." She did not look at him as she spoke. She kept her eyes on the man in the blue suit. "Not him!" "Please leave, Frank." But it was too late. The door had closed. The man was looking at Frank. "Sit down," he said. Frank Corson sat down. He saw the man and he saw Rhoda, but they seemed unimportant. Something had happened to his mind and he was busy struggling with it. That was all that was important. The strange lethargy that came like a cloud over his mind was beyond understanding. Captain Abrams looked into the closet and back at Brent Taber. His lips were back a little off his teeth. With Abrams, this indicated anger. "All right. What does Washington do about this one? Does Washington tell us to be good little boys and go hand out parking tickets?" "It wasn't like that," Taber said. "It doesn't much matter how it was. The thing is—how is it going to be now?" "You got a murder, friend. Plain and simple. What do the New York police do when they get a murder?" Abrams spoke bitterly. "Sometimes they let a panel truck drive in and haul the body away and that's that." "Let's save the sarcasm until later. I called you in. It's your case. What do you want me to do?" "Talk a little, maybe. The other one—now this one. The same killer?" "I think so." "What does he look like?" "Medium height. One-eighty. Around forty. And dangerous." "Dangerous, he says," Abrams muttered. "Any idea where we might go to have a little talk with him?" "No, can't say that I have." "Try the streets of Manhattan—is that it?" "I guess that's about it." Taber paused. "Wait a minute. If he's looking for a spot to hide in he wouldn't come back here and he certainly wouldn't try King's room. There's just a wide-open chance he might have another location. Wait a minute while I look up an address." An hour after he'd finished delivering his speech on the floor of the Senate, Crane held a press conference in one of Washington's most important hotels. The place was crowded. He stood on a platform, looked out over a sea of heads, and pointed at an upraised hand for the first question. "Senator, have you gotten any reaction from the people of your state on the revelations contained in your speech?" "There has been very little time, but telegrams have been pouring in." "What is the reaction?" "Frankly, I haven't had time to read them. However, I think there is little doubt as to the mood of my people. They will be indignant and angry at Washington bungling." He pointed to another hand. "Senator, granting the details you outlined are accurate, have you any knowledge as to—" "Young man. Every detail I outlined was completely accurate." Senator Crane withered the reporter with a hostile look and pointed elsewhere. "Senator, did you consult with the people responsible for handling the situation before making your speech?" "I tried. I was willing to co-operate in every way, but my patience ran out. Also, I was alarmed at the bungling and inefficiency I saw. For that reason I went straight to the people with my story." "Senator, I have a wire from the governor of your state. It just arrived in response to my query as to his attitude on this affair. The governor says, quote, No comment, unquote. Would you care to comment on his statement?" Senator Crane thought he heard a faint ripple of mirth drift across the room. But, of course, he had to be mistaken. "I think the governor replied wisely. I expect to return home and confer with him as soon as possible." "Senator, can you explain why, out of all the able, sincere officials in Washington, D.C., elected or otherwise, you were the only one with enough wisdom and courage to put this matter before the people?" "Young man, I am not going to pass judgment on anyone in Washington or elsewhere. Each of us, I'm sure, does his duty as he sees it." Again it seemed to Senator Crane that he heard a ripple of mirth—louder this time. It had to be something to do with the acoustics. Except that he was suddenly aware of smiles, too. The next question had to do with possible consultation with Russia on the matter of the coming space invasion. Senator Crane agreed that such consultation should be made and then retired hastily into seclusion. A touch of panic hit him. He felt like a man who was far out in the water without a boat, with the closest land a few hundred feet straight down. Good God! Had he miscalculated? Of course not. He had only to await the verdict of the nation's top newspapers before proceeding with the publicity program that might well make him presidential timber. John Dennis, for the first time since Rhoda had known him, seemed nervous. He kept licking his lips and shifting his eyes from Rhoda to Frank Corson. Frank Corson sat quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself. Rhoda crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured a double Scotch. She went to the sofa and sat down a little uncertainly. "I guess you two haven't met. John, this is Frank Corson." John Dennis paid no attention. He walked to the sofa, sat down, and took a sheaf of notes from his jacket pocket. "I've known Mr. Dennis for quite some time," Frank commented wryly. "Be quiet." John Dennis' tone was neither hostile nor friendly. They were the words of a person whose mind was on other things. They watched him as his eyes scanned the notes. He appeared to be memorizing them. The air became somewhat electric, the silence so deep it seemed to scream. Rhoda looked across at Frank Corson. Frank's expression was empty, as though he'd suffered some traumatic emotional blow and was struggling to recover. John Dennis stirred. He also appeared to be struggling. He turned his eyes on the drink Rhoda was holding. He took it out of her hand and downed it in a single gulp. They watched as he went back to work, leafing through the notes, one at a time. As he came close to the end, he lifted his head and shook it violently, as though "Do you want another?" she inquired. "Give me another." She poured a second Scotch and handed it to him. He drank it like so much water. The last sheet of notations was covered. Then John Dennis sat motionless for a minute, his frown and uncertainty returning. "It's hard to project the details," he said. "All this detail. Difficult." He dropped the last sheet and got up and poured himself another Scotch. "They will make an army now," he said. The Scotch went down smoothly. He went to the window and looked out. "This planet is different. The sun there is blue and the air is very thin. Their bodies are nothing, but their heads are very big. Now they will create an army and take this planet." Frank Corson was shaking his head slowly like a groggy fighter. Rhoda sat huddled on the sofa, her mind such a mixture of tumbling emotions that it seemed to be trying to tear itself out of her head. John Dennis came back and stood in the middle of the room. He swayed drunkenly. "So many things I don't understand. I see people I know—or I should know. I—" He turned his eyes—eyes no longer empty—on Rhoda. "I want to make love!" Frank Corson got up from his chair and hurled himself on Dennis. Rhoda screamed. Senator Crane sat at his desk. There were a pile of newspapers in front of him. The first one carried a front page story with the headline: SENATOR CRANE WARNS OF SPACE INVASIONShades of Orson Wells' Martian |
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