Only one ship is seeking us, a black Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break.
PHILIP LANJARD, "Next, Please"
COUNTDOWN: H MINUS SIX WEEKS
General Narovchatov paused at the door and waited to be invited inside even though Nadya had told him that Comrade Chairman Petrovskiy was expecting him. Petrovskiy did not like surprises.
The Chairman was writing in a small notebook. Narovchatov waited patiently.
The office was spartan in comparison to his own. Petrovskiy seemed not to notice things like rugs and tapestries and paintings. He enjoyed rare books with rich leather bindings and was fond of very old cognac; otherwise he did not often indulge himself.
There had been a time when Nikolai Nikolayevich Narovchatov was concerned that it would be dangerous to enjoy the trappings of wealth and power while the Chairman so obviously did not. He still believed that in the early days that concern had not been misplaced; but as Narovchatov rose in status, the gifts sent him by Petrovskiy had become more numerous and more valuable, until it was obvious that Petrovskiy was encouraging his old associate to indulge himself, to enjoy what he did not himself care for.
Narovchatov had never discussed this with Chairman Petrovskiy. It was enough that it was so.
Chairman Petrovskiy looked up. His welcoming smile was broad. "Come in, come in." Then he grimaced. "I suppose it was not a joke. They continue to come, then?" He lifted his glass of tea and peered at Narovchatov over its rim.
"Da, Anatoliy Vladimirovich." General Namvchatov shrugged. "According to the astronomers, at this point it would be difficult for them not to come. The rocket forces will be brought to full strength, and we are anticipating their arrival. They move toward us very fast."
"And they arrive, when?"
"A few weeks. I am told it is difficult to be more precise because it is a powered ship. That makes it unpredictable."
"And you continue to believe that this is an alien ship, and not more CIA tricks?"
"I do, Anatoliy Vladimirovich."
"So, I think, do I. But the Army does not."
Narovchatov nodded. He had expected nothing else. And that could be a great problem for a man who had no need of more problems. The Chairman looked old and tired. Too old, Narovchatov thought. And what might happen when
Perhaps the Chairman had read his thoughts. "It is long past time that you were promoted, Nikolai Nikolayevich, my friend. I wish you to have the post of First Secretary. We will elevate Comrade Mayarovin to the Politburo, where he can rust in honor."
"It is not necessary."
"It is. Especially now. Nikolai Nikolayevich, I have long hoped to be the first leader of the Soviet Union to retire with honor. One day, perhaps, I will, but not until I can give the post to someone worthy. You are the most loyal man I know."
"Thank you."
"No thanks are needed. It is truth. But, my friend, I may not be with you so long. The doctors tell me this"
"Nonsense."
"That it is not. But before I am gone, I hope to see us accomplish something never before done. To give this land stability, to allow its best to serve without fear of their lives."
The czars had never done that. Not the czars, and not Lenin. This was Russia. "That requires law, Anatoliy Vladimirovich. Bourgeois lands have law. We have . . ." He shrugged expressively. "We have had terror. It is not enough. You will remember little of Stalins time, but I recall. Khrushchev destroyed himself in trying to destroy Stalins memory, and we shall never make that mistake; but Khrushchev was correct, that man was a monster, Even Lenin warned against him."
"He did what was necessary," Narovchatov said.
"As do we. As will we. Enough of this. What shall we do about this alien spacecraft?"
Narovchatov shrugged, "The Army has begun mobilization, constructing new space weapons." He frowned. "I do not yet know what the Americans will do."
"Nor I," the Chairman said. "I suppose they will do the same."
I hope so, Narovchatov thought. If they do notthere were always young officers who would begin the war if they thought they could win it. On both sides. "Also, we have warned the commander of Kosmograd. I scarcely know what else to do."
"We must do more," the Chairman said. "What will these aliens want? What could bring them here, across billions of miles? If they are aliens at all, and not a CIA trick."
This again? "Such a trick would make our space program look like childrens games. It is alien, and powered. I would believe a spacegoing beast with a rocket up its arse before I thought it a CIA trick. But I think it must be a ship, Anatoliy Vladintirovich."
"I do agree," the Chairman said. "Only I cannot believe what I believe. It is too hard for me! What do they want? No one would travel that far merely to explore. They have reasons for coming."
"They must. But I do not know why they have come."
"No, nor will we, until they are ready to tell us. We know too little of this." Petrovskiy speared Narovchatov with a peasants crafty look. "Your daughter has married a space scientist. An intelligent man, your son-in-law. Intelligent enough to be loyal. Intelligent enough to understand what your promotion to First Secretary will mean to him.
"Someone must command the space preparations. Who?"
He means something, Narovchatov thought. Always he means things he does not say. He is clever, always clever, but sometimes he is too clever, for I do not understand him.
Who should command? The news of the alien ship had brought something like panic to the Kremlin. Everyone was upset, and the delicate balance within the Politburo was endangered. Who could command? Narovchatov shrugged. "I had assumed Marshal Ugatov."
"Certainly the Army will have suggestions. We will listen to them. As we do to KGB." The Chairman continued to look thoughtful.
What is his plan? Narovchatov thought. The meeting of the Defense Council is in an hour. The heads of the Army and the KGB. The chief Party theoretician, Chairman Petrovskiy, and me because Petrovskiy has named me his associate. At that meeting everything will be settled, then comes the meeting of the entire Politburo, and after that the Central Committee to endorse what we have already decided. But what will we decide? He looked at Petrovskiy, but the Chairman was studying a paper on his desk.
What did Anatoliy Vladimirovich want? The Soviet Union was ruled by a troika the Army, the KGB, and the Party with the Party the weakest of the three, yet the most powerful because it controlled promotions within the other two organizations. Other schemes had been tried, and nearly brought disaster. When Stalin died, Party and Army had feared Beria, for his NKVD was so powerful that it had once eliminated nearly the entire central committee in a matter of weeks.
Party and Army together acted to eliminate the threat. Beria was dragged from a meeting of the Politburo and shot by four colonels. The top leadership of the NKVD was liquidated.
Suddenly the Party found itself facing the uncontrolled Army. It had not liked what it saw. The Army was popular. The military could command the affections of the people. If the Partys rule ever ended, it would not be the Armys leaders who would be shot as traitors. The Army could even eliminate the Party if it had full control of its strength.
That could not be allowed. The NKVD was reconstructed. It was shorn of many of its powers, divided into the civil militia and the KGB, never allowed to gain the strength it once had. Still, it had grown powerful again, as always it did. Its agents could compromise anyone, recruit anyone. It reached high into the Kremlin, into the Politburo and Party and Army. Alliances shifted once again. . .
Here, in this room, origins did not matter. Here, and in the Politburo itself, the truth was known. No one of the three power bases could be allowed to triumph. Party, Army, KGB must all be strong to maintain the balance of power. Ruling Russia consisted of that secret, and nothing more.
Petrovskiy was a master at that art. And now he was waiting. The hint he had given was plain.
"I believe Academician Bondarev might be very suitable to advise us and to direct our space forces during this emergency," Narovchatov said. "If you approve, Anatoliy Vladimirovich."
"Now that you make the recommendation. I see much to commend it," Petrovskiy said. "I believe you should propose Academician Bondarev at the Central Committee meeting. Of course, the KGB will insist on placing their man in the operation."
The KGB would have its man, but the Party must approve him. Another decision to be made here, before the meeting of the full Politburo.
"Grushin," Narovchatov said. "Dmitri Parfenovich Grushin."
Petrovskiy raised a thick eyebrow in inquiry.
"I have watched him. He is trusted by the KGB, but a good diplomat, well regarded by the Party people he knows, And he has studied the sciences."
"Very well." Petrovskiy nodded in satisfaction.
"The KGB is divided," Narovchatov said. "Some believe this a CIA trick. Others know better. We have seen it for ourselves. Rogachev has seen it with his own eyes, in the telescopes aboard Kosmograd. The Americans could never have built that ship, Anatoliy Vladimirovich."
Petrovskiys peasant eyes hardened. "Perhaps not. But the Army does not believe that. Marshal Ugatov is convinced that this is an American plot to cause him to aim his rockets at this thing in space while the Americans mobilize against us."
"But they would not," Narovchatov said. "It is all very well for us to say these things for the public, but we must not delude ourselves."
Petrovskiy frowned, and Nikolai Narovchatov was afraid for a moment. Then the Chairman smiled thinly. "We may, however, have no choices," he said. "At all events, it is settled. Your daughters husband will take charge of our space preparations. It is better that be done by a civilian. Come, let us have a cognac to celebrate the promotion of Marinas husband!"
"With much pleasure." Narovchatov went to the cabinet and took out the bottle, crystal decanter, and glasses. "What will the Americans really do?" he asked.
Petrovskiy shrugged. "They will cooperate. What else can they do?"
"It is never wise to underestimate the Americans."
"I know this. I taught it to you."
Nikolai Nikolayevich grinned. "I remember. But do you?"
"Yes. But they will cooperate."
Narovchatov frowned a moment, then saw the sly grin the Chairman wore. "Ah," he said. "Their President called."
"No. I called him."
Nikolai Narovchatov thought of the implications of a deal. Petrovskiy was the only man in the Soviet Union who could have spoken to the American President without Narovchatov knowing it within moments. "Does Thisov know this?" he asked.
"I did not tell him," Petrovskiy said. He shrugged.
Narovchatov nodded agreement. The KGB had many resources. Who could know what its commander might find out? "You will discuss this in the Defense council then?"
Nikolai Narovchatov poured two glasses of rare cognac and passed one across the large desk. The Chairman grinned and lifted the drink in salute. "To the cooperation of the Americans," he said. He laughed.
Naruvchatov lifted his glass in reply, but inwardly he was confounded. This alien ship could be nothing but trouble at a time when had come so close to the top! But nothing was certain now. The KGB would have its own devious games, so twisted that even Bonderev would not understand. And the Army was reacting as armies always reacted. Missiles were made ready.
Many fingers hover over many buttons.
Nikolai Naruvchatov felt much like the legendary Tatar who had saddled a whirlwind.
The shows were over and Martin Carnell was driving home with his awards, one Best Bitch, three Best of Breed, and a Best Working. One more than he expected.
From behind him, from the crates in the back of the heavy station wagon, came restless sounds Martin flipped off the radio to listen. None of the dogs sounded sick. Barth was just a puppy, and he wasnt used to traveling in the station wagon. His mood was affecting the others.
Martin was taking it easy. He stayed at fifty or below with half a minute to change lanes. You couldnt drive a station wagon like a race car, not with star-quality dogs in the back. Otherwise theyd be ready to take a judges hand off by the day of the show.
Martin saw a lot of country this way. This had been a typical dog-show circuit. Two shows on Saturday and Sunday, sixty miles apart, five weekdays to be killed somehow, and three hundred miles to be covered; two more shows, much closer together, the following weekend; two thousand miles to be covered on the trip.
"Take it easy guys," Martin said, because they liked the sound of his voice. He turned on the radio.
The music had stopped. Martin heard, "I have spoken with the Soviet Chairman" It sounded like the President himself: that unmistakable trade union accent. Martin turned up the sound.
"We are also consulting on a joint response to this alien ship.
"My fellow Americans, our scientists tell us that this could be the greatest event in the history of mankind. You now know all that we know: a large object, well over a mile in length, is approaching the Earth along a path that convinces our best scientific minds that it is under power and intelligently guided. So far there has been no communication with it.
"We have no reason to believe this is a threat"
Martin grinned and shook his head, wishing hed heard the beginning of the broadcast. Whoever was playing the part, he sure had the Presidents voice down pat. Martin laughed (as J started all three dogs barking) at a different thought: George Tate-Evans tuned in at the same moment he had; he wouldnt know whether to bellow with the joy of vindication, or hide under the bandstand.
The Enclave was still going, Martin knew that much. He couldnt understand now, how hed got sucked into the survivalist mind set. Spent some real money, too, before he came to his senses. The only thing that little fling had ever done for him was to turn him from miniature poodles to Dobermans. Hed bought Marienburg Sunhawk because a Doberman might be better equipped to defend his house and found that he flat out preferred the larger dogs.
But the rest of the Enclave families must still be meeting on Thursday nights, all ready for the end of civilization on Earth. George and Vicki: what would they do? Warn the rest of the the Enclave and head for the hills, of course: their natural reaction to, any stimulus. And they say dog people are crazy!
A newscasters rich radio voice continued the theme, speaking of war and politics. It introduced a professor of physics who also wrote science fiction and who predicted wonderful things from the coming confrontation. Martin, easing down old U.S. 66 with a load of prima donna dogs, began to wonder if he really was listening to a remake of War of the Worlds. He hadnt found a plot line yet.
There was heavy traffic in the San Fernando Valley. Isadore Leiber cursed lightly, half listening to the news station, half worrying about how late he would be.
Isadore had simply forgotten. It wasnt a Thursday. His brain hadnt ticked over until four-thirty, and then: Hey, wasnt something happening tonight? Sure, Jack McCauley called an emergency meeting of the Enclave. Probably has to do with that . . . light in the sky. Id better call Clara, remind her.
Clara had remembered, and wondered where he was. He fought abnormally dense rush-hour traffic straight to the Tate-Evans place, one house among many in the San Fernando Valley. Clara met him at the curb, laughing, insisting that shed followed him right in, in her own car. He grabbed her and kissed her to shut her up. They held each other breathlessly for a moment, then by mutual consent let go and walked up on the porch.
Clara rang the bell and they waited. In those few seconds Clara stopped laughing, even stopped smiling. "Do you think theyll be angry?"
"Yeah. My fault, and I guess I dont care that much. Relax."
"They did tell us. Or Jack did."
The door opened. George Tate-Evans ushered them inside. He wasnt angry, but he wasnt happy either. "Clara, Isadore, come on in. What kept you?"
"My boss," Isadore lied. "Whats happening?"
George ran his hand over bare scalp to long, thin blond hair. He wasnt yet forty, but hed been half bald when Isadore first met him. "Sign of virility," hed said. Now he answered, "Jack and Harriet taped some newscasts. Were playing them now. Clara, the girls are in the kitchen cooking something."
Girls, kitchen, cooking something. What? This was serious, then; or else George was sure this was serious. Could it be? That serious?
Survivalism. Specialization. Wartime rules. Isadore made his way into a darkened living room. He knew where the steps and the furniture were; hed been there often enough. The light of the five-foot screen showed him an empty spot on the couch.
There were only men in the room. The house belonged to George and Vicki Tate-Evans, but Vicki wasnt present.
And Clara had gone to the kitchen. Clara! Ye gods, she thought it was real. . .
George waved him to a seat, then went to the Betamax recorder. "Here it is again," he said.
The set lit up to show the presidential seal, then the Oval Office. The camera panned in on President David Coffey. The President looked calm and relaxed. Almost too much so, Isadore thought. But he does look very presidential. . .
"My fellow Americans," Coffey said. "Last night, scientists at the University of Hawaii made an amazing discovery. Their findings have since been confirmed by astronomers at Kitt Peak and other observatories. According to the best scientific information I have been able to obtain, a very large spacecraft is approaching Earth from the general direction of the planet Saturn."
The President looked up at the camera, ignoring his notes for a moment. He had a way of doing that, of looking into the camera so that everyone watching felt he was speaking directly to them. Coffeys ability to do that had played no small part in his election. "I have been told that it is not possible that the ship came from Saturn, and that it must have come from somewhere much farther away. Wherever it came from, it is rapidly approaching the Earth, and will arrive here within a few weeks, probably at the end of June."
He paused to look at the yellow sheets of paper that lay on his desk, then back at the camera again. "So far we have received no communication from this ship. We therefore have no reason whatever to believe the ship poses any threat to us. However, the Soviet Union became aware of this ship at the same time we did. Predictably, their reaction was to mobilize their armed forces. Our observation satellites show that they have begun a partial strategic alert.
"We cannot permit the Soviets to mobilize without some answer. I have therefore ordered a partial mobilization of the United States strategic forces. I wish to emphasize that this is a defensive mobilization only. The United States has never wanted war. We particularly do not desire war at a time when an alien spacecraft is approaching this planet.
"No American President could ignore the Soviet mobilization. I have not done so. However, I have spoken with the Soviet Chairman, and we have reached an agreement on limiting our strategic mobilization. We are also consulting on a joint response to the alien ship.
"My fellow Americans, our scientists tell us that this could be the greatest event in the history of mankind. You now know all that we know: a large object, perhaps a mile in length, is approaching the Earth along a path that convinces our best scientific minds that it is under power and intelligently guided. So far there has been no communication with it.
"We have no reason to believe this is a threat, and we have many reasons to believe this is an opportunity. With the help of God Almighty we will meet this opportunity as Americans have always met opportunities.
"Good night."
The Oval Office faded, and news analysts came on. George switched off the set. "We can skip the analysis. Those birds dont know any more than we do. But you see why I called an alert."
They had called themselves the Enclave before there was anything more than four men meeting at George and Vickis house.
That was at the tail end of the seventies, when the end of civilization was a serious matter. There were double-digit inflation and a rising crime rate. Iran was holding fifty-odd kidnapped ambassadors and getting away with it. OPECs banditry regarding oil prices seemed equally safe. What nation would be next to see the obvious? The United States couldnt defend itself. The value of her money was falling to its limit: a penny and a half in 1980 money, the cost of printing a dollar bill. U.S. military forces were in shreds, and the Soviets kept building missiles long after they caught up, then passed, the United States strategic forces.
If the economy didnt collapse, nuclear war would kill you. Either way, there were long odds against survival of the unprepared. The Enclave was born of equal parts desperation and play-acting. Which was more important depended on the morning headlines.
Things looked better after Reagan was elected. The hostages were returned minutes after the old cowboy took office. . . but the Enclave continued to meet. The dollar ceased to fall, then grew strong. The economy was turning around, the stock market was showing signs of health; but there was no money for the military, and the Soviet Union kept building rockets. The Enclave made lists of what a survivalist ought to own, and checked each others stocks. A years supply of food, just like the Mormons. Guns. Gold coins. And they dreamed of a place to run, just in case.
The late eighties: Welfare had not increased to match inflation, and unemployment was down. There might have been a connection. Inflation had slowed too. General Motors had won its lawsuit against the unions, for damages done by a strike, and collected from the union funds; strikes ought to be less common in the future. The weapons of war had moved into a science-fictional realm, difficult for the avenge citizen to assess. But the Soviet space program had been moving steadily outward until they virtually owned the sky from Near Earth Orbit to beyond the Moon.
The Enclave continued to meet. They had grown older, and generally wealthier. Four years ago they had bought a piece of land outside Bellingham, a decaying city north of Seattle that had been a port and shipyard before the silt moved in and the trade moved south. It was as far from any likely targets of war as anyplace that seemed able to support itself. There had once been a navy shipyard, but that was long ago.
They all made money, but they werent rich. Their jobs kept them in Los Angeles. Over the years one or another had found wealth or peace or even both in small towns. The dropouts were replaced, and the Enclave endured, an aging group of middle-class survivalists unwilling to break away from Los Angeles and their not inconsiderable incomes.
All this time they had been meeting, every Thursday night after the dinner hour, like clockwork. Tonight was Monday; they had left work early, and Isadore was getting hungry; the dinner hour should have been just beginning. But the terrible strangeness of this night did not derive from that. Isadore Leiber sought for what it was that was bothering him, and it came, not in strangeness but in familiarity, as he reached for a cigarette.
Four years ago hed given up smoking for the last time. Hed given it up, but he borrowed from his friends at every opportunity. Giving up smoking became his lifestyle. It got to where his friends couldnt stand him: the sight of a familiar face triggered his urge to smoke; he would roll pipe tobacco in toilet paper if he had to. But he was giving up smoking, yes indeed
And he was getting ready for the end of civilization, yes indeed. But hed been doing it for well over a decade, and that had become his lifestyle. Tonight was weird. No laughter, no complaining about fools in Congress
Tonight they meant it.
"I hate the timing," George said. "Corliss is about to graduate, and the rest of the kids wont like missing the tail end of the school year, and if they do, I dont."
There were echoes of agreement. "I cant go," Isadore said.
The noise stopped. Jack McCauley said, "What do you mean, cant?"
"I cant quit my job. I cant take leave, either. George said it, its timing. Travel agencies get hectic with summer coming on."
Jack made a sound of disgust. George asked, "Sick leave?"
"Mmm . . . a couple of weeks."
"Wait till, oh, the tenth of June. Jack, this makes sense." George jumped the gun on an automatic protest. "Were bound to forget something. Well keep Iz posted. Ia, you take your two weeks sick leave just before the ETIs reach Earth. You come up then. Two weeks later youll damn well know whether you want to go back to the city."
"Its still costing us a pair of strong arms," Jack groused.
Isadore decided he liked the idea. "Ill ask Clara if she wants to take the kids up early. Maybe well want to keep them in school as long as we can."
"All right, it cant be helped," Jack said. "But the rest of us are going, right?" He snowballed on before there could be an answer. "Bill and Gwen are already up at the Enclave. Weve got the second cistern system running, and hes got the top deck poured on the shelter. Bill says the well has to be cleaned out, but we can do that with muscle when we get there." He pursed his lips in a familiar gesture. "One thing, Ia. You come up a full week before the ETIs get here. Cut it any finer, and you may not make it at all. When people really believe in that ship, God knows what theyll do."
"If the Soviets give us that long," George said.
Jack frowned. "For that matter, if theres any alien ship at all. Maybe this is something the Russians cooked up."
They all shrugged. "No data," Isadore said. "But youd think the President would know."
"And hed sure tell us, right?" Jack said. "Iz, are you sure you want to wait?"
"Yeah, I have to." Christ, hes right, Isadore thought. Who the flick knows whats happening? Aliens, Russiansa nuclear war could ruin your whole day. "I think Clara will go up early," he said. "Ill have to ask her."
The others nodded understanding.
When theyd first started the Enclave, they made a decision. One vote per adult, but all the votes of a family would be cast by one person. The theory was simple. If a family couldnt even agree on who represented it, what could they agree on?
Thered been a problem at first, because Isadore thought Clara ought to vote rather than him, but she didnt get along with Jack, or maybe Jack didnt get along with her. Thered been too many arguments. After the first year things had settled in, and only the men voted, but Isadore often went off to ask Claras opinion before making a decision.
"Who else goes?" Jack demanded.
The inevitable question struck each of them differently. Jack was already belligerent. George looked disconcerted, then guilty.
"Well. . . us, of course," he said. "Our wives and children."
"Of course. Who else? Who do we need, who do we want? John Fox?"
Isadore laughed. "Hell, yes, we want Fox. Hes a better survivor than any of us. Thats why hes not coming. I talked to him. Hell be camping somewhere in Death Valley, and thats fine for him, but he didnt invite me along."
"What if Martie shows?"
"Aw, hell, Jack."
Martin Carnell had been with the Enclave for a time. Hed lasted long enough to help buy the house and land in Bellingham. Then. . . maybe hed run into financial trouble. Hed quit. Later hed moved further north into the Antelope Valley.
"You read me wrong, George. I just want to point out that hes got some legal rights. Were betting that wont matter much, but suppose he shows up at the gate? Before or after the ETIs get here."
"Weve turned that place into a fortress since he quit. Expensive." Isadore grinned at them. "What he owns is something like half his fair share. Awkward."
"Yah. Well, I see him sometimes, and hes still single. Theres just him"
"And those damn Dobennans," George said.
"Is that bad? We can use some guard dogs. Well make him build his own kennels."
"These are show dogs. Theyre gentle and dignified and everybodys friend. Anything else would cost Martie some prizes. Theyre not guard dogs."
"Would looters know that?"
A silence fell. Jack said, "Shall we let him in if he shows at the gate? Assuming hes got equipment and supplies. But I see no reason to phone him up and invite him."
There were nods, and some relief showed. George said, "Harry Reddington wants to come."
Two heads shook slowly. Jack McCauley asked, "Have you seen Hairy Red lately?"
George hesitated, then nodded. "We used to be friends. I guess we still are. Hell, we took motorcycles up along the Pacific Coast Highway one time. Three hundred miles. Wed stop in a bar and Harry would sing and play that guitar and get us our drinks that way, and maybe our dinners. Hairy Red the Minstrel. I"
"Lately?"
"Yeah, Ive seen him lately."
"He looks like hes about to have twins, and he has to use that cane. It isnt because he had those accidents." Jack shook his head in bewildered pity. "Rear-ended twice in two weeks, in two different cars, and neither of them had head rests! Typical of Harry. But thats not the point. The insurance companys been fastshuffling him for two years, and his lawyer tells him he wont win if hes too healthy when he gets on the stand." Now Jacks speech slowed and his enunciation improved, as if he were making a point for someone who didnt quite understand English. "Harry Red has been letting his insurance company tell him to stay sick! So he doesnt exercise, and he lets his belly grow like a parasite"
"All right, all right. Ken Dutton?"
"He had his chance."
"Interesting mind. He collects some odd stuff, and it all seems to make sense. Maybe were too much alike, the four of us."
"George, you offered to let him in. He waffled. Now theres something coming, and suddenly its not fun and games anymore. He could have got in when it was fun and gamesWhy didnt he? Was it the money?"
"Oh, partly. Not just the dues for the Enclave, but the gear we make each other buy. He has to pay alimony. . . Only hes got gear. Its just not like ours. And partly its because he never really gets all the way into anything."
"Hardly a recommendation. What has he got for weapons?"
George smiled reluctantly. "That crossbow. Itd kill a bear, that thing, and its advertised as suitable for SWAT teams. And his liquor, he calls it trade goods, and he really does keep an interesting bar"
"A crossbow. And a rocket pistol! Ive seen his little 1960s Gyrojet. How many shells has he got for it? Its for damn sure theyll never make any more. He could have been in and he didnt pay his dues, George!"
Isadore said, "You could say the same about Jeri Wilson. We want her, dont we?"
"Youre married, Iz. And Im very married."
"Martie isnt. John Fox isnt, and wed take him. There are men we want besides us, arent there? Do we want the men seriously outnumbering the women? I dont think we do."
"We cant invite the whole city," Jack said. "We dont have the room. Izzie, who else are you going to try to drag in? You knew we wouldnt have Harry, and you wouldnt want him anyway"
"Its just that a month from now . . . I can see us all being terribly apologetic."
"The hell you say," said Jack.
"This could be our invitation to join the Galactic Union. It could be a flock of. . . funny looking alien grad students here to give us cheap jewelry for answering their questions"
George made a rude noise. Jack, at least, looked more thoughtful than amused. Isadore steamed on through the interruption. "and who knows what they might consider cheap jewelry? Okay, so were going off to hide. Somebody has to. Just in case. But I can hear the remarks from some people I like, because we left them outside."
Jacks look was stony. "Remember a science-fiction story called To Serve Man?"
"Sure. They even made, a Twilight Zone out of it. About an alien handbook on how to deal with the human race."
George smiled "Some science-fiction fans actually published the cookbook" and sobered. "Yeah. Somebody has to hide till we know what they want. And just in case, we do not take liabilities."