The Monitors

by Keith Laumer

Version 1.0

A #BW Release

CHAPTER ONE

It was a warm afternoon in the city. A fitful wind whirled

its burden of gaily-colored aspirin and tranquillizer car-

tons and gum and cigarette wrappers into the faces of the

well-fed burghers and their mates who puffed along on

bunioned feet, their life-blunted features set in expres-

sions of opaque anonymity, oblivious of the mixed chorus

of auto horns, the spirited cries of impatient taxi drivers,

and the merry voices of news vendors hawking details

of the latest disaster.

Ace Blondel stood before a shop window, idly noting

the temperature of the pavement through his thinning

shoesoles and admiring a display of hand-painted neck-

ties, glossy cardboard shoes and sports coats nattily fash-

ioned of lightweight burlap stiffened with glucose, all

marked down—according to attached placards—from for-

merly incredible sums in honor of National Easy Pay-

ment Week. In the dusty glass he saw the reflection of the

busy street, the mismatched building fronts across the

way with their clustered signboards thrusting for favored

placement like jungle foliage fighting for survival, and,

above, a narrow strip of smoke-dimmed blue sky.

He turned in time to confront a nubile wench with

lust-red lips, bosoms thrust up and forward like fruits of-

fered on a tray, her one-piece pelvis clamped in a corset

as rigid as armor plate. His tentative smile died at birth,

impaled by the kind of look reserved in other cultures

for convicted rapists. He sighed philosophically, glanced

at his seven-jewel wrist watch, and headed for the painted-

over glass door of Harry's Marine Bar and Grill.

Inside, a television set above the long bar made sounds

like a lovelorn elk, shedding its flickering glow on extinct

fishermen's nets, crumbling cork floats, a mummified tuna

with a brass plate celebrating its capture, and a hand-

painted mural representing extravagantly mammalian

mermaids, their charms ignored by a pair of regulars

perched on stools like jockeys waiting for the bell that

never comes.

A large man with a white apron tied high over a mas-

sive paunch paused in his glass polishing, shifted his tooth-

pick, and called: "Ace! Welcome home, pal! What'll it

be?"

"Just squeeze me one out of the bar rag, Harry."

Blondel slid onto a stool as far as possible from the sound

of the telly. "That's all the budget allows for the present."

"Broke again, pal?" The bartender shifted the tooth-

pick again, leaned on the bar with an elbow the size of

a ham hock. "I thought you had a swell job with the

Health and Welfare Department airlifting encyclopedias

to them underprivileged Bulgarians."

"It was the Cambodians; and it wasn't encyclopedias

—it was movie magazines. And it was the US Information

Service, not HEW. And as of last week I don't have

the job."

"What happened?"

"Somebody discovered the funny books were Red Chi-

nese propaganda. A fink in the translating department,

they figure. They washed out the program, and me

with it."

"Tough," Harry commiserated. "Why don't you sign on

regular with one of the airlines, Ace? With your experi-

ence you'd be a cinch."

"Not for me, Harry. The hours wouldn't suit me."

"What hours? I got a brother-in-law flies one day, off

three—"

"Regular hours. Also regular schedules and regular

forms to fill out—"

"And regular pay checks." Harry did things with bottles

and glasses, put a drink in front of Blondel.

"What I'd do if I was your age, Ace, I'd head for

Ecuador. I heard a guy can make a fortune down there

now, with this revolution they got coming up."

"A misnomer," one of the drinkers called from his end

of the bar. "What we call revolutions are merely the nor-

mal Latin method of holding elections. That is to say,

bullets are as good as ballots and much more easily

counted. Now—"

"Nix, Prof. Ya wanna get us all picked up for some

kind of Reds?" his drinking partner protested. They went

on with the discussion. Blondel used the first half of the

drink.

"Hey, Harry. I said the pink label stuff . . ."

"Too hot for rot-gut." Harry leaned confidentially

close. "You know what I think? I think the whole world

situation's a deal Washington cooked up with the Roo-

shians to like simulate the economy—" He stopped

talking and cocked his head at the TV set. The musical

adenoids had stopped and an eerie whistling of the sort

usually associated with mad scientists was modulating

up and down the scale. The screen flashed solid white;

then zigzags began running across it from right to left.

The zigzags blinked out and circles started whirling up

out of the center of the screen.

"What's this, some new kind of commercial?" The

Prof's buddy sounded grieved.

"That set ain't given me any trouble before." Harry

went to stand in front of it. "It's these noocular bombs

they're testing," he stated positively. "The weather—"

"Attention," a strong, he-man voice said from the TV.

"Your attention please! An announcement of vital impor-

tance will be made in five minutes. All persons are re-

quested to go at once to a radio or television set and

stand by. Attention! An announcement of vital impor-

tance . . ."

There were echoes from outside; the voice was coming

in strongly on a distant PA system. Harry reached for

the volume, turned it down—but the voice continued loud

and clear. Harry flipped the set off; there was a click.

But the voice kept on: ". . . stand by! An announcement

of vital importance . . ."

"I knew they'd pull one like this some day." Harry

was snapping the switch on and off with a sound like a

ping-pong match. "Commercials you can't turn off, yet!

I got a good mind—"

"Now, Harry," the Prof said. "Don't do anything hasty."

He was frowning fixedly at the set. "Try pulling the plug."

"Yeah." Harry yanked the cord from the wall. The

voice went on; the blooping circles threw spooky light

on the Profs face.

". . . importance will be made in four minutes! Your

attention please! All persons are requested . . ."

Muttering, Harry reached up, seized the set in a bear-

hug and hauled it down from its shelf, deposited it heavi-

ly on the bar. He slapped the top and sides. The voice

bobbled and went on: ". . . to the nearest radio or tele-

vision set and stand by. Your attention, please. . . ."

"Enough's enough!" Harry swept the set off behind the

bar with a crash like an airliner hitting a mountain side.

Light flashed once, brightly, and went out. The voice cut

off in mid-word.

". . . vital importance," the PA system outside boomed.

"... three minutes .. ."

"Harry, you shouldn't have done that," Prof said un-

happily. "The phenomenon—"

"You can still hear it." Harry waved an arm. "I give

up!" He stepped over the wreckage, grabbed a glass and

began polishing furiously.

"What was the guy selling?" Prof's buddy asked.

"Who cares?" Harry barked. "Laxatives? Deodorant?

Hell, what's wrong with smelling natural? A new kind of

toilet paper that'll revolutionize the art? Some kind of

reducing pills that'll take it off faster than you can pack

it on eating the stuff the other commercials are selling?

The latest ten-port-hole gas-eater with built-in metal-fa-

tigue—?"

"Maybe we ought to listen," Blondel said. "It might

be important."

"Hah!" Harry snorted, but he was listening now. Out-

side, the PA sounded louder than ever. A siren was howl-

ing somewhere, getting closer.

". . . one minute," the big voice was saying. "Atten-

tion . . ." Blondel slid off the stool and went to the door,

pushed out onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians had halted,

stood with their mouths hanging open, craning to see

where the voice was coming from. A small bald-headed

man ran from a TV repair shop across the street, holding

his hands over his ears.

"You don't suppose," the Prof said thoughtfully from

behind Blondel, "that every set in his shop . . . ?"

A police car swung around the corner, the siren moan-

ing down the scale as it pulled to the curb in front of the

bar. Two cops hopped out and heavyfooted it across to

the TV store.

"Stand by for the announcement—NOW!" The com-

bined volume of every set in the neighborhood blasted out

loud enough to rattle windows. It was quiet then for a

few seconds except for the sounds of police voices raised

in inquiry.

"Somehow, Mr. Blondel," Prof said, "I have a feeling

that this is more than a mere advertising stunt. . . ."

"Citizens of Earth," a new voice racketed across the

street. "I am the Tersh Jetterax. It is my pleasure to an-

nounce to you that a new government has now taken

over the conduct of all public affairs. Effective at once,

all former police, military, judiciary, and legislative func-

tions are suspended. Any individual previously serving in

any official capacity whatever may consider himself at

liberty. Monitors who will assume the administration

of the new system will arrive among you momentarily.

They will be distinguished by uniforms of a distinctive

yellow color, and will take full responsibility for the

maintenance of law and order. Essential personnel such

as medical doctors, bus drivers, maintenance special-

ists, et cetera, are requested to carry on temporarily, until

relieved. All other citizens are to go at once to their places

of residence and await further instructions."

As the speech ended, there was a blood-curdling yell.

The Prof grabbed Blondel's arm and pointed. Some-

thing huge was settling down over the building tops: a

gold-painted blimp, half the size of the Hindenburg, un-

adorned except for a curlicue of black lines near one

end. It dropped in fast, maneuvered past the jungle of

TV antennae on top of Levi's, lowered itself down be-

tween the buildings until it was hovering ten feet above

the street as big as a beached ocean liner. People were

scattering, running away from it; a high, wailing sound

was coming up from the crowd. Heads were popping from

windows all up and down the street.

"My God, they're everywhere!" Prof pointed. There

were other blimps in the distance drifting down as light

as dandelion feathers. One sailed in from a side street,

came to rest half a dozen blocks above where Blondel

watched.

"What . . . what's it all about?" Harry's bull-tones

had lost their assurance.

"There is no cause for alarm," the original voice rack-

eted over the confusion. "Please follow all instructions

quickly and without disorder. . . ."

The blimp, filling the street before the bar, hung just

above the tops of a pack of stalled automobiles whose

drivers had abandoned them and run when the shadow

settled over them. Now panels flopped open near the

bottom of the immense airship. Men in gleaming gold uni-

forms emerged at a jog trot. They were tall fellows—at

six-one—with physiques like lifeguards. They spread out,

started directing traffic, shooing pedestrians along the

sidewalk, helping old ladies across the street.

The four policemen emerged from the TV repair shop,

gaped at the scene, then whipped out whistles and blew

piercing blasts. One clamped a large hand on a passing

yellow-clad shoulder. The Monitor waved a hand. The cop

stiffened; then he took off his cap, tossed it in the gutter,

dropped his badge beside it, then wandered away into

the crowd. The other three cops fared no better.

"It's the Rooshians," Harry groaned. "The bums got

the jump on us!"

"A power seizure—an invasion—carried out in broad

daylight!" the Prof gasped.

One of the Monitors was standing ten feet from them,

a Captain Video in gilt longjohns, making a nice little

bow to a well-shaped redhead.

"No cause for alarm, ma'am," he was saying. His voice

sounded like the announcer's. "Go to your home, please,

and—"

"Whatta ya yakking, go home?" She had a voice like

a dry bearing. "I'm onna way to the byooty shop! I got

a appointment, for a week, already. Outa my way, ya

bum!" She swung a pocketbook the size of first base at the

invader's head.

The blow failed to connect. The swing skidded off into

a vague kind of wave. The redhead's mouth opened, but

no sound came out. Then she turned and trotted back

the way she had come. The Monitor turned toward Blon-

del.

"Gentlemen, please move along now to your respective

domiciles." He showed a nice smile, all square chin and

curly blond hair and shiny white teeth.

"The hell you say." Harry pushed past Blondel, paunchy

but with adequate muscle under the fat. "Who do you

Reds think you're pushing around—" He reached for the

man in yellow, who leaned aside just far enough and did

something quick with his hands. Harry hadn't been

touched, but he came to a stop, swung around with a

bewildered look on his face, then started off docilely up

the street.

"Hey, where's he going?" the Prof's pal asked.

"Home," Blondel guessed. "Just like the man said."

He took the Prof's arm, eased him back toward the door.

"Please go along to your homes now, gentlemen." The

Monitor was still using the toothpaste smile.

"Sure," Blondel said. "We live here. Rooms in back,

you know." He backed through the door into the bar,

eased the door shut.

"Hey, what's—?" the Prof's friend started.

"Quiet, Freddy." The Prof gave Blondel a sharp look.

"What now, Mr. Blondel?"

He went to the window and looked out past the card-

board cutout of a blonde model holding a beer stein. A

squad of ten or twelve of the men in yellow had formed

a column of twos and were heading off down the block.

More of them were filing out of the blimp, lining up, mov-

ing out. Most of the local citizens were on the move

now, looking back over their shoulders as they went.

"Ah-hah!" The Prof's friend pointed across the street.

A squad of invaders were moving in through the wide-

open doors of the First National. "Now I get it!"

"This is more than a bank job," Blondel said, watching

another crew marching up the post office steps. "These

boys mean business. Did you see the way they handled

Harry?"

"How did these bums catch SAC with its pants down,

after all the dough—"

"Calmly, Freddy, calmly," the Prof soothed. "Do you

suppose they're Russians?" he asked Blondel.

"Try the phone; call the Times. Maybe they know

what's going on."

"It took some brains to plan this caper," Freddy opined.

"I didn't think them Ruskies had it in 'em."

The Prof returned from his errand. "A recorded mes-

sage," he said. "Stand by your radio or TV for the next

announcement. Same thing when I tried the television

station."

"Did you see them cops?" Freddy inquired. "They

acted like they was getting their twenty-year gold watches

from the mayor."

"Look, fellows." Blondel chewed his lip, watching the

last of the golden-hued troops disembarking from the

blimp, still hanging lightly above the stalled cars, its

belly sweeping down like a circus big top, closing off the

sky. "They've stopped coming. It looks like there are only

a couple hundred of them."

"Per blimp," Prof amended. "And we don't know how

many blimps."

"That ain't many—not for a town this size," Freddy

stated belligerently. "Let's rush 'em!"

"Wait a minute," Blondel demurred. "Let's not do

anything hasty."

"He's right, Freddy," Prof agreed. "That airship—it

doesn't quite fit in with what I've understood of the scope

and sophistication of Soviet technology. . . ."

"So they was holding out on us." Freddy dismissed

the objection. "I say let's jump 'em fast and show the

bums they can't just walk in and take over, even if SAC

is asleep at the switch!"

"This is no time for dramatics." Blondel turned to face

the others. "Men, we've got to evade their dragnet and

join up with an organized Underground!"

"Nuts! I got a good mind to—"

"Freddy," Prof silenced him.

"We'll have to sneak out the back way," Blondel planned

aloud. "Once clear of the city, we can make contact—"

"How?" Prof interrupted.

"Hey!" Freddy said brightly. "Keen! We'll go into some

little like tavern in some hick town, and there'll be some

beautiful dames and some old peasant types sitting around,

and we'll give the password or something. . . ."

"Ummm. Too risky," Prof demurred. "They might

turn out to be counterintelligence agents. I'm too old to

perform well under torture."

"Gee, yeah, you're right," Freddy conceded. "We

might break and spill the whereabouts of the secret head-

quarters, or something."

"What secret headquarters?" Blondel demanded.

"I said, or something!" Freddy returned.

"Look, we can worry about contacting the Resistance

later." Blondel cut the discussion short. "Right now, we

have to get clear of the city."

"Don't you imagine the coup embraces a wider area

than the metropolitan district?" Prof sounded doubtful.

"Maybe—but let's not think negatively. We'll have to

pack a few iron radons and possibly some brandy, as a

stimulant. ..."

"Why not just, er, depart openly?"

"Are you kidding? What kind of Underground activity

would that be?"

"Sorry," Prof murmured.

"I don't guess we need to blacken our faces," Blondel

mused. "I guess we could snitch a couple of ice picks

from back of the bar for weapons."

"I got this bad wrist," Freddy said.

"Perhaps we'd better stand by and see what develops,"

the Prof offered. "Probably our forces are on the way

even now; any abrupt moves on our part might merely

complicate matters."

"And be trapped here?"

". . . remain in your homes" the voice of the Moni-

tor boomed from the street. "Further instructions will

be issued shortly. ..."

"Ah . . ." The Prof tugged at his stiff collar. "I think

perhaps, on the whole, it might be better to do as they

say—"

"What? Take orders from some interloper you didn't

even get a chance to vote for?" Blondel expostulated.

"I've been voting losing tickets for some decades," Prof

said mildly.

"Well, suit yourself," Blondel said. "Freddy and I

will just have to try it alone."

"I got this back, too," Freddy said. "Ask Prof, he'll

tell you." Freddy put a hand on his hip and arched his

back, registering pain stoically endured.

"You mean both of you are going to just sit here

and let this . . . this invasion happen without lifting a

finger?"

"No!" Freddy declared. He went to the bar, poured out

drinks all around, tossed his back. "Ahhh . . ." he said,

and patted his stomach.

"Well, it looks like I'll have to contact the loyalists

on my own," Blondel said. He looked expectantly at the

others. They looked back.

"Well," Blondel added. "I guess I'd better get moving.

It'll be dark in seven or eight hours."

"Yeah," Freddy nodded. "Maybe six and a half."

"If they should, ah, apprehend you," Prof cautioned,

"tell them whatever they want to know. Don't worry

about us."

"Yeah, we'll hold the fort back here." Freddy squared

his shoulders.

"I mean, if you want me, to wait a while . . ." Blondel

said.

"The sooner you make your try the better chance you

got," Freddy said. "When you get through, tell 'em me

and Prof is standing, by our posts, come what may."

"I mean, if you really think I'd be jeopardizing the de-

fense effort—" Blondel paused expectantly.

"Go get 'em, Tiger," Freddy said, and hiccupped.

"Each man to his own chosen duty." Prof clapped

Blondel on the shoulder. "We'll think none the less of

you for it."

"Hey, I'm the one that's going on the dangerous mis-

sion," Blondel objected.

"As to that, who's to say?" Prof said wisely, and hand-

ed his glass to Freddy for a refill.

"A guy could take offense at a crack like that," Freddy

said darkly.

"If he didn't have a bad wrist!" Blondel snapped. "Well,

so long, fellows. See you in a concentration camp." He

went to the bar, slipped a fifth of green-label into his side

pocket, and soft-footed it to the door at the back.

At the end of the alley Blondel peered out at a milling

throng of citizens among whom the tall, smiling figures

of the Monitors moved confidently, giving instructions,

shaping up the crowd, visibly bringing order out of chaos.

"Are you saved, son?" a loud voice boomed at Blon-

del's elbow. He started violently, turned to face a chub-

by-jowled, florid-faced man in soiled cuffs and a drab

suit of unfashionable cut.

"Well, I'm working on it," Blondel countered. "But

keep your voice down—"

"Have "you taken thought for your soul this morning?"

the stranger pressed on. "How do you stand up in

Heaven?"

"Right now I'm more concerned about my neck," Blon-

del said impatiently. A finger like a Polish sausage shot

out to point at Blondel's chin. "Son, I'm going to pretend

you never said that! Now let's pray a few words—"

"Pardon me." Blondel side-stepped him. "I'm in a

hurry—"

The finger hooked his lapel. "In too big a hurry to

hear the word of God?"

"Sorry; I didn't recognize you. Look—"

"You look, son! Ah, they are arriven among us! Down

on your knees, boy!—"

Blondel fended off the heavy hands that had landed on

his shoulders.

"Look, I have things to do—"

"Behold the angels of the Lord!" The hands gripped

him, aimed him toward the street. "There they are, wear-

ing their golden raiment! Ah, rejoice, son, for they have

come to bring the heavenly light to us sinners!"

"Speak for yourself, pops," Blondel retorted. "Person-

ally, I take a different view of matters—"

"How's that! You utter defiance of the Lord?" The

hands jumped to Blondel's throat; they were large, horny

hands, and they closed with the force of grappling hooks.

Blondel brought his clasped fists up in a swing that

broke the hold, simultaneously ramming a knee into the

evangelist's midriff. The latter doubled over, clutching

himself.

"Praise God!" he shouted. "Just wait till I get unfolded

here, you shifty son of a spotted pup," he added in a lower

tone, "and I'll bend you into a pretzel."

Blondel sidled past him, stepped out, and mingled with

the crowd. Some of the herded citizens, he noted, seemed

bewildered, moving along in a state of shock. Others,

wearing expressions of mild interest, craned for a better

view of the yellow-clad VIP's. At a street corner, Blondel

paused while a minor traffic jam was sorted out by effi-

cient Monitors.

". . . told the old lady they was soft on Commu-

nism ..." a fat man was saying.

". . . been expecting it for weeks," a wizened old fellow

stated. "My wife's cousin is a big shot in the Job

Corps..."

". . . cute bunch of guys, but they're all so butch . . ."

". . . college-educated radicals sold us out . . ."

A trim, yellow-clad young fellow appeared, urging

the bystanders along. Blondel attempted to fade back,

found himself facing the Monitor, who nodded pleasantly

and said, "If you'll just stand by, sir, special transpor-

tation facilities will be in operation in a few minutes."

"Yeah, uh, I was just ducking over to Aunt Gertie's

for some plum preserves," Blondel improvised. "But it

can wait...."

"Your address, sir?"

"Ah, I don't actually have one—that is, I'm just visit-

ing—I mean, I live right down the street."

"Please go to your home on foot, in that case, sir."

The Monitor smiled disarmingly. "The confusion will be

cleared -up shortly, and normal movement can be re-

sumed."

"Sure. . . ." Blondel backed into the throng, feeling

eyes boring into his back. He cut down a side street,

emerged on a less densely packed thoroughfare. Monitors

were on duty here too, directing traffic, herding the pe-

destrians. The big voice was still blaring out instructions,

almost unnoticed over the crowd babble.

There was a gray Mustang parked at the curb; there

was no one near it at the moment. The keys were in the

ignition, Blondel noted. He rounded the front bumper,

tried the door. It opened. He slid in behind the wheel,

tried the starter. The engine kicked off with an unself-

conscious roar. Blondel wheeled the small car away from

the curb. None of the Monitors seemed to notice.

Blondel drove carefully, passed block after block of

Monitor-occupied territory. As he neared the city's edge,

traffic slowed to a crawl. Ahead he saw a barricade across

the street, manned by two Monitors. Blondel noted that

they were waving most of the cars back. His turn came.

A face as bland as an insurance salesman's at renewal

tune bent over and looked in the window.

"Where are you bound, sir?"

"Home," Blondel said cheerfully. "Just like you boys

said."

"Where do you reside, sir?"

"Hah?"

"Where is your home, please?"

"That way." Blondel pointed ahead.

"Very well, sir. Kindly go directly there and remain

by your radio or—"

"Yeah, television." Blondel favored the invader with a

grin, wink, and chuckle. "I've been listening to you boys.

I got the message, yes siree!"

"Thank you, sir. Please remain on the main route."

"Ah . . . suppose I, ah, sort of wandered off it?"

There was no visible change in the Monitor's expres-

sion, but suddenly it seemed to penetrate like a laser

beam.

"Like, if I got lost," Blondel amplified, feeling the grin

going sick on his face.

"Take care not to get lost, sir. It would create unnec-

essary confusion."

"Yeah, sure thing, chief."

The Monitor waved him on. His grin dropped as soon

as he was past the barrier. It was nothing specific that the

Monitor had said or done, but Blondel was aware of a

feeling under his ribs as though he had been playing

Russian roulette with all nine chambers loaded.

Twenty minutes later, with the city lights aglow far

behind the racing Mustang, a noise like a giant egg-

beater penetrated over the hum of the car engine. Blondel

ducked down and squinted up through the windshield.

A small helicopter was swinging across the road ahead,

dropping in quickly to intercept him. It was bright gold

in color.

"Attention, motorist!" Blondel's dash radio said in a

kindly tenor. "Please pull to the right shoulder and stop

your machine."

Blondel hunched down over the wheel and floorboard-

ed the Mustang. It jumped ahead, snarled under the heli-

copter close enough to buck in the backwash from the

rotors, roared ahead, wide open. A moment later the cop-

ter reappeared off to the side at about fifty feet altitude.

"Please stop your machine," the radio said calmly.

"Don't be alarmed. This is not an arrest, merely a rou-

tine counselling action."

Blondel's weight was on the gas pedal. The needle wav-

ered up past a hundred, to a hundred and ten Detroit,

which he estimated should mean a good eighty-five ac-

tual. The heli was still loafing along beside him.

"Sir," the radio chided him gently, "please bring your

auto to a halt at once. It will be to your advantage to

comply voluntarily with all instructions."

Blondel ignored the order, swung a wide curve in a

squeal of tortured rubber—and abruptly the engine died.

Blondel wrestled the suddenly stiff wheel, saw the copter

swinging across directly in front of him. A small puff of

smoke jetted from an orifice on its underside, expanded

quickly to a pinkish cloud that enveloped the car. He

sniffed once, caught the first hint of a crushed cherry

flavor, and slammed the air intakes shut. Then he aimed

the slowing car straight down the center of the road and

flopped over on the wheel as realistically as comfort al-

lowed. The car rolled on; there were a number of pre-

liminary thumps, then a hard dip and lurch, and the car

slowed to a stop. Blondel lay limp across the wheel, hear-

ing the whap-whap of the copter growing louder, feeling

the car rock as the copter settled in beside it. The noise

of the rotors braked down and ceased. There were fault

sounds of opening hatches, then the crunch of feet on

hard ground.

Blondel opened one eye. The copter was parked twenty

feet away, dead ahead. Two Monitors were walking back

toward him, tall and trim in yellow. He waited until

they were opposite the front bumper, then reached for

the switch. The engine caught; he threw the transmission

into low, gunned straight ahead. The two men in yellow

jumped aside. The wheels screamed on turf. Blondel cut

the wheel hard, felt the car skid sideways; it struck the

stern of the heli a solid clip, kept going in a hail of gold

plastic chips. The Mustang banged down through the

ditch, smashed through rusted barbed wire, clipped off

a 666 sign and was back on the pavement, laying rubber

all the way up to ninety-five. In the rear-view mirror

Blondel saw the two Monitors standing in the middle of

the road, looking after him.

CHAPTER TWO

Twenty minutes later, Blondel swung a curve that af-

forded him a view of gas stations and motels and a

clock tower in the distance—and the big gold bulge of a

blimp swelling up above a row of red-and-green-shin-

gled housetops. He took the first right, went four blocks

to a wire fence lining a field of dry cornstalks, turned

left again—and saw the police car blocking the road

ahead. Blondel swore silently and pulled off on the

right shoulder. The patrol car was a regulation State Pa-

trol Chevrolet, but with a gold skunk-stripe painted down

the back. Two yellow uniforms emerged from it, came

up, one on either side of the Mustang, looking like fra-

ternity brothers of the last pair he had seen at close

range, complete with confident smiles. He cranked the

window down.

"Say, those are right pretty new uniforms you fellows

are wearing." He took the offensive. "How much did they

cost the taxpayers?"

"Thank you for stopping, sir." The Monitor gave Blon-

del a two-fingered salute and a neat little smile. Cool

blue eyes flicked over the inside of the car. "The uniforms

are provided by the Authority. All taxes have been voided,

retroactive to last midnight, as you perhaps—"

"Yeah, that's a cute one." Blondel nodded as if in

agreement with a jest. "That'll be the day. Ah . . . was

I doing something wrong, officer?"

"This is merely a routine counselling check, sir. May

I have your ignition key?"

"My keys? Maybe I'd better see a badge first. I mean,

what are you boys, some kind of special deputies or

something?"

"We're your Monitors, sir. You've heard the announce-

ments during the last eighty minutes." It was not a ques-

tion.

"Ah ... my radio's on the blink—"

"Testing—one, two, three, four," the radio said clearly.

"Well, can you beat that . . . ?"

"Will you step out of the car, please, sir?" The Monitor

opened the door.

"What for?" Blondel demanded. "What did I do ... ?"

A tingly feeling went over Blondel; his muscles

twitched; his left leg slid out and felt for the ground.

He was leaning, sliding across the seat, grabbing the

door for support, standing up—with no more volition

on his part than it took to fall off a cliff.

"Heyyy . . ." The quaver in his voice was real.

"Don't be alarmed, sir. But all instructions of Monitors

must be complied with promptly, you know."

"What is this? I'm an American citizen! What's this

all about?"

"American and other national citizenships have been

voided," the Monitor said as casually as if he were giving

directions to the men's room. "AH citizens of the planet

now enjoy equal status before the Authority."

The other Monitor had walked to the back of the car.

He stood there, looking at the license plate in an off-

hand way. Blondel felt his stomach tightening.

"Sir," the Monitor said reproachfully, "thirty-seven

minutes ago you were requested to stop for Monitors'

counselling, but instead you damaged their vehicle and

fled. Please tell me why you did this."

"Well, it was like this," Blondel said hastily. "I thought

they were stick-up men."

"The vehicle you are driving is registered in the name

of Mr. Chico Y. Lipschultz," the Monitor stated. "Have

you his permission to make use of the vehicle?"

"Sure, good old Chick lets me take it any time I

like."

"I'll have to ask you to accompany us into the village,"

the Monitor said. "I'll arrange for the return of the auto

to Mr. Lipschultz."

"What about my date? She'll be expecting me, and has

she got a temper!"

The Monitor gave Blondel a sad look, as though he

were mildly disappointed. He stepped back, and Blondel

went along to the patrol car without any heelkicking.

They rode in silence for five minutes, past the as-

sortment of Flats Fixed, Clean Rooms, and Good Eats

signs that adorned the approaches to the town. Ahead a

heavy-duty traffic light dangled over an intersection; it

changed just as the car reached it. The Monitor at the

wheel worked the stick shift awkwardly, braked. The car

bucked, and for an instant his eyes flicked down toward

the dash. Blondel reached, grabbed the man's yellow pill-

box cap and yanked it down hard over his face, then

whirled for the door just in time to meet the other Moni-

tor diving forward. The latter bounced backward into

his seat. Blondel shook his head, then slammed the door

open and was out and running.

A pair of whiskery citizens in soiled undershirts and

lived-in overalls gave Blondel the full benefit of four

bloodshot eyeballs as he raced past them, but the shock

was insufficient to unhook their thumbs from their shoul-

der-straps. There was an alley ahead; Blondel cut into

it, picked out a gray board fence fronting it thirty feet

along, made a running jump and got a grip on the top

board just before it gave way. He struck on his back

with the approximate impact of Steve Brodie hitting the

East River, groped his way to his feet, heard other feet

pounding, and tried it the easy way—through the gate he

hadn't seen the first time.

He was in a weed-grown back yard with a cracked

walk leading to a back porch with sagging screens and a

trapezoidal door. He took the steps in a wobbly jump,

banged a fist through the rotted wire, raked the hook

free from its eyelet and was inside, sniffing a sour odor

of decayed wood and imperfectly preserved pears. The

door to the interior looked solid; he tried the knob, and

it opened. The inside hall was dark, papered in a puce

and pale green pattern that was almost invisible under

the grease layer. There was a door at the far end

under a fanlight that shed a glow like a sunken ship on

a strip of worn carpet that hadn't been pretty even when

it still had its hair. Just as he reached the big brass

knob, a door banged open on his left and a bald-domed

gentleman in galluses and armbands flapped a newspaper

at him.

"Don't ast," he barked with a rasp like Edison's origi-

nal recording. "Told you fellers fifty times if I told you

once—no use coming around before five pee emm, 'cause

she ain't in! And if I hear any more o' that unchristian

screeching and hollering you fellers call singing, I'm tele-

phoning Sheriff Hoskins quicker'n Ned Spratt got re-

ligion!"

"I'm with you, pop," Blondel reassured him. "I just

came to tell you there's a couple of young fellows on

the way over to serenade her with steel guitars. They

said you were scared to call Hoskins. Said you were pick-

ing up KGAS in Peoria on your upper plate. Said you

had women in your room, and kept a bottle hidden under

the slipcover on the divan. Watch out for 'em. They're

tricked out fit to kill in a couple of dandelion-yellow

zoot suits, and I'll tell you one more thing," Blondel

leaned close enough to get a whiff of Sen-Sen, "they been

drinking!"

Blondel got the door open and was out on the sidewalk

before his new acquaintance had recovered enough breath

to yell "Whippersnapper." There were a few people in

sight, looking ordinary enough to be secret agents. Blon-

del set off at a brisk walk, got as far as the Rexall on

the corner before a squad car pulled into sight a block

down. He ducked back, heard loud voices, saw a small

crowd gathering in front of the house from which he

had come. The front door was open, and two tall men

in yellow appeared to be having an altercation of some

sort with an elderly gentleman wielding a folded news-

paper.

There was a neat flush-panel door set in the imitation v

stone wall beside Blondel bearing a polished brass panel

with names on it. He palmed it open, was in an asbestos

tile and plasterboard hall with a menu-board directory of

room numbers and names. Tan-carpeted stairs led up.

He took them three at a time, whirled around a landing,

up more stairs, and was looking out a wide nailed-shut

double-hung window at the street below. The squad car

was at the curb with the doors hanging open. Down the

block, two Monitors were advancing at a brisk stride

under the stares of the townsfolk. Blondel ran past closed

doors to the far end of the hall, found a dead end, ran

back. The sounds of efficient feet were audible now com-

ing up the steps. A door ahead of Blondel opened and a

lean woman with wide bony hips stepped out, dragging a

lad in a shirt with horizontal stripes—probably a hint of

things to come, Blondel judged from the kick the tot

swung at his ankle as he slid past into an odor of iodo-

form and closed the door with his hip. The room was ten

feet by twenty. There was a row of hard chairs along

one wall, a table with magazines with torn covers, a desk

decorated by a wilted rosebud, a couple of ashtrays on

stands, a clothes tree bearing a coat and hat. Framed

diplomas from a dental college made out to "Rodney H.

Maxwell" hung on the pale green wall behind the desk.

There was also an inner door, closed and—he tried it—

locked. In the hall a shrill female voice seemed to be

objecting to something. The feet sounded closer.

Blondel snatched the hat from the rack, slapped it on

the back of his head; he tore a strip from an issue of

Time, with a picture of a ball player who had been dead

for three years, wadded it and jammed it into his right

cheek; it made a satisfactory bulge. He dropped into the

chair and got a magazine open just as the door swung

back.

A clean-cut, young America face gave him an in-

terested look, glanced around the room.

"Sir, have you seen anyone enter this room during

the last minute or two?" His voice was of the type

favored by soap manufacturers.

Blondel gave him a look like a seasick tourist turning

down a pork chop.

"You're waiting for the dentist?" the Monitor per-

sisted.

"Wha' ya 'hink, I'm wa'in fer a bus?"

"How long have you been here, sir?" The Monitor came

into the room, polite but insistent. His partner was right

behind him.

"Who wan's to know? Ge' lost."

"Your name please, sir?"

The locked door behind Blondel opened. He looked up

to see a youngish, suntanned face with wavy black hair,

a tight line of mouth and heavy-rimmed glasses above

starched whites. The newcomer gave the two Monitors

an impersonal look, glanced down at Blondel without

surprise.

"You can come in now, Mr. Frudlock," he said and

held the door open. Blondel stood, holding his jaw in

place with one hand.

"That biscuspid's giving you trouble again, eh, Mr.

Frudlock?" The dentist looked solemn. "Maybe we'd bet-

ter just go ahead with an extraction." Their eyes met; Blon-

del thought he saw the flicker of an eyelid.

"Wha'ever you say, Doctor, eh, Maxwell." Blondel

went past him into a tight little room filled with glass-

fronted cases surrounding a chair that made the one at

San Quentin look like Granny's rocker. Over the gray-

metal bulk of an air conditioner set in the window he

could see the street below, with clumps of townfolk

gathered here and there to watch the excitement. Only

one Monitor was in sight, standing on the corner oppo-

site. Beyond the door he could hear well-modulated voices

exchanging highly civilized questions and answers. Then

doors clicked and the man in white was sliding inside,

looking like a youth who has just set fire to a police-

man.

"They're gone," he said, and did something with his

right ear.

"Thanks, Doc," Blondel started. The dentist twiddled

his ear again. Blondel ignored the eccentricity. "What's

the best way out of here?" He motioned to the window.

"That route seems a little exposed."

"Who sent you?" The dentist was giving him a one-

eyebrow-up look now.

"The yellowjackets chased me in here. They're mad

at me because I broke a couple of their toys and then

ran out on them. There aren't too many ways to run

in your town."

The dentist frowned. "And you just . . . happened

along here to my office?"

"That's right."

The dentist moved casually around the table and sta-

tioned himself near a filing cabinet. The manner in which

his hand hovered near the lock suggested that it con-

tamed something besides files.

"Look, Doc," Blondel said hastily. "I don't know what

you're thinking, but I'm just a guy who wandered in off

the street. I'm grateful to you for shaking those two

goons, but now I'll just get on with my paper route."

He stepped toward the door.

"Just a minute." The dentist nipped at his lower lip

with a tooth that had obviously been brushed twice a

day and had seen its dentist twice a year! "What did

you do to attract their attention?"

Blondel gave him a brief rundown on his activities.

Maxwell smiled when he described the accident to the

heli and said "Ah!" when he reached the break from the

squad car. "I had a kind of vague idea of making it to

some town they haven't hit yet," Blondel concluded. "But

it looks like they planned this thing right down to the

cheese in the mousetrap."

The dentist nodded. "All right, I'll take a chance on

you," he said crisply. "You may be a plant, but if you

are, you'll live to regret it—just barely." He turned and

opened a drawer marked KIL-KUR, twiddled things, and

slipped out a soft-leather holster with a small shiny gun

with a long slim barrel. It disappeared under his left arm.

"Come on." Blondel followed him into the outer office;

Maxwell paused long enough to make a minute adjust-

ment to the angle at which his second-best diploma hung,

then eased open the door and slid out. They went along

the hall, in through a door, just like the others, that con-

cealed a narrow stair that led down to a fire door open-

ing on a parking lot occupied by three nondescript se-

dans and a pearl-gray custom-bodied Mercedes 300 SL.

Maxwell slid behind the wheel of the latter, and Blondel

climbed in the other side in a heady perfume of glove

leather and waxed inlay work. The door closed with a

click like a watchcase.

"Where are we going?" Blondel inquired.

"My place," Maxwell said shortly and dug off with a soft

rhoom! like a secret weapon leaving the launching pad.

A block up the street they passed a gold-striped Moni-

tors' car parked in a gas station. Nobody appeared to

notice them, except an expensively corseted middle-aged

matron who gave Maxwell a wave and a smile that sug-

gested that Doc had that first million made, if he stuck

around town long enough to collect it.

It was a breezy ten-mile drive north along the kind

of winding, tree-hung road that suggested picnic baskets

in the rumble seats of Model A Fords. They made it in

nine minutes by the dash clock, topped a rise, and saw

a spread of neatly-tended acreage with a brick glass

house that could have been lifted from any professional-

class suburban street in the country. Blondel could see

a long graveled drive leading up a slope of lawn past a

stretch of wall behind which a stray shaft of late sun

struck a patch of yellow.

He grabbed the wheel, hauled it back as Maxwell swung

out to turn in.

"Gun it!"

Maxwell's reactions were quick; he straightened the

Mercedes out with no more than a little slithering of loose

shoulder-gravel and booted her hard.

"It was a stake-out," Blondel yelled over the roar of

the wind. "Unless you've got a houseboy who wears

yellow."

Maxwell's eyes went to the rear-view mirror; they tight-

ened at the corners. He said something under his breath.

Blondel looked back. The garage door was up and a

police car was just poking its snout out; a yellow-clad

figure was running toward it from the house.

"I wonder how . . ." Maxwell cut his eyes at Blondel.

"They traced me to your office," he said, "and called

for the ambush as soon as they found you gone. Keep

your eyes on the road. I'm not going to jump—in either

direction." The little car howled around a. curve posted

35, straightened out in time to enter another. Maxwell

was staring straight ahead, his lips parted, eyes bright.

"Fasten your belt," he said. "This may be a little hectic."

"You think you can outrun them?"

"I may not be faster—but I know the roads."

"They've got helis."

Maxwell glanced at the sun, just above treetop level

now. "I have a few tricks, too." His tone suggested that

he was pretty well satisfied with the way things were

going.

"For a quiet little hometown dentist you're full of sur-

prises, Doc."

"Not all of us were as somnolent as the enemy im-

agined," Maxwell said. "We knew this day was coming.

We're not entirely unprepared."

"Who's 'we'?"

Maxwell ignored the question, drifted the SL around

another ungraded turn, kicked out of it. went away wide

open, did what the British call a racing change through

a wobbly S curve that had been designed to save a

tree that had quite probably been a sapling when Poca-

hontas was selling trade goods to John Smith. Blondel

got a flash of the Interceptor just coming into the straight-

away half a mile behind.

"They're gaining," he said.

"Open the top boot." Maxwell nodded at the black

mohair cover buttoned down behind them with big chrome

snaps. Blondel lifted a corner; Maxwell poked something

on the dash and a panel slid back, exposing the gleaming

walnut butt of a rifle nestled down under the parcel

tray. Blondel looked at him and shook his head. Maxwell

turned the corners of his mouth down.

"This isn't a game of cops and robbers," he barked.

"It's war!"

"So far, all they've got on me is resisting arrest, grand

larceny, and assault and battery," Blondel called over

the racket of the slip cover. "I believe I'll pass up the

murder rap, if it's all the same to you."

"Start facing realities!" Maxwell twisted the wheel hard,

slithered fifty yards on two wheels, straightened out with-

out a pause in the flow of his rhetoric. "Principles don't

exist in a vacuum. If you believe in a thing you either

fight for it, or stand by and watch it die."

"I'm not sure killing people is exactly what my princi-

ples have in mind," Blondel protested.

"Scruples are fine—if you live to use them! Survival

comes first!"

"Yeah—but me minus my scruples is just a hundred

and eighty pounds of unsatisfied appetites for all the

wrong things."

"Dead appetites—unless you're willing to stand up for

what you believe!"

"What I believe seems to vary. Right now I believe

I won't shoot at those boys unless they shoot first."

"Very well." Maxwell was watching the rear-view alert-

ly. "Anything to be obliging . . ." There was a gentle

curve coming up ahead, lined with amber-leaved trees

silhouetted against a meadow that sloped up to a stand

of second-growth oak. Maxwell swung wide—too wide.

The right wheels chopped underbrush. Blondel winced at

the sound of untrimmed jimson weed whipping at the

paint job. Behind them the pursuit car was coming up

fast, attempting to close. The curve tightened; Maxwell

fought the Mercedes, still watching the mirror. They were

in a skid, howling along at a forty-five degree angle to

the direction of travel. Ahead, heavy sawhorses stood

across the road before a raw slash of dug-up pavement

between big trees. Blondel braced himself for the im-

minent crash—

Maxwell hit the gas pedal and the SL veered, leaped

straight for the dense undergrowth to the left of the road.

Blondel ducked as the car bounced hard, raking her bot-

tom, and shot between thick trunks, crashed through

brush, bucking up a ragged rise to burst out in the clear

on a potholed and weed-grown single lane road. The

screech of its brakes mingled with a similar howl be-

hind. Blondel winced at the smash that came then, fol-

lowed by crashing sounds, metallic pings, a crackling.

He let out a long breath.

"You're a fast man back of a wheel, Maxwell." The

dentist looked smug.

"Week-end rally driving has its uses," he said.

Blondel opened his door. "Let's go down and take a

look."

"Never mind that." Maxwell backed the Mercedes, pre-

paring to drive on. Blondel stepped out, headed for the

rough path the car had cut, without waiting to see whe-

ther the other followed.

He emerged on the road below, fifty feet from where

the police car lay on its side beyond what was left of the

barricade, its front wheels angled hard left and spinning

out of round. Dusky orange flames were licking up

around the twisted front bumper. Maxwell came up behind

Blondel. "Looks as though they missed the turn," he said

in a tone as elaborately casual as a pool hustler's. "Now

let's get out of here—"

"They're still in there!" Through the starred wind-

shield one of the Monitors was groping at the door

above him. A quick ripple of fire ran back along the un-

derside of the car, leaped high with a whoof! when it hit

puddled gas under the tank. Blondel sprinted for it,

came around on the upwind side, reached in over the

dented top for the door handle. It was wedged tight. He

scrambled up on top of the wreck, tried again; it was

jammed as solid as the main vault door at Fort Knox.

"Come on, you fool!" Maxwell yelled.

Blondel tried the rear door. The frame was twisted

out of line. He stamped smashed glass from the rear

frame, reached down for a grip on a slack arm, hauled

hard. The Monitor, he discovered, was heavier than he

looked—a good two hundred pounds, as limp as a wet

sail. The fire was booming up behind Blondel now; paint

crackled like hot fat.

"... a car," Maxwell shouted. "Leave them and come

on!"

Blondel got a grip under the Monitor's arms and

heaved him out on the side. There was a snarl of a

double-clutched engine, then a skreel of brakes and a

second police car shot into view, pushing a spray of dust

beside it. It rocked to a stop half through the broken bar-

ricade and the doors popped wide. Maxwell whirled and

disappeared into the brush. Four tall, long-legged men

in yellow came pelting up toward the burning car. Blon-

del shoved the man he had gotten out down across the

side of the car.

"Jump, sir!" one of the Monitors called, and a gust

whirled fire around the seat of Blondel's pants. He

jumped. Two Monitors closed in on him, held him up

while he coughed smoke and knuckled pain tears in-

to his eyeballs. He looked back and saw two men on

top of the car, passing down the second man. Then they

were all running. In the distance Blondel caught the

roar of Maxwell's SL gunning up to speed just as the

tank blew. Fire fountained over half an acre of woods.

Three of the Monitors went trotting off, efficiently aim-

ing little gadgets like pen-cell flashlights at the blazes.

The one who was still holding Blondel's arm cleared his

throat as deferentially as a waiter presenting a padded

bar bill.

"Sir, I must ask you to go with us back to the vil-

lage."

The other Monitors were coming back now. They

ringed Blondel in. Their manner, while not precisely om-

inous, invited no liberties.

"Sure," Blondel said wearily. "I guess we were bound

to get together sooner or later."

CHAPTER THREE

It was a silent ride back into town. Blondel assayed a

question or two which netted him courteous but unin-

formative replies. The car made a brief stop at the po-

lice station, which seemed to be full of Monitors, with a

few city cops and state troopers standing around out-

side looking puffy and unhealthy next to the trim fig-

ures in yellow. Then they drove on through town and

down a bumpy dirt road to a small grass-strip air-

port. There was a gold heli waiting, similar to the one

Blondel had rammed earlier. Two Monitors escorted

him to it, got in with him. The machine lifted, hummed

along at treetop level for a few miles, then circled and

settled in on a wide lawn that looked black in the deep

twilight, except where floodlights made green pools.

Blondel climbed out and stared at the big, bright-lit gray

stone house with gabled roofs, chimneys, a porte-cochere,

and long low outbuildings behind.

The Monitors escorted him up wide steps between

potted arbor vitaes into a high-ceilinged hall with polished

ash flooring showing around pink and gold Persian rugs.

There were shiny, spindle-legged tables, a big gilt-framed

mirror, a painting of an old pirate in mutton chops.

There was a short wait, then a polite Monitor ush-

ered him along to a big white-painted oak door standing

invitingly half open. He stepped through it into a library

that looked half the size of the one at Yale.

Across the room a small, fatherly-looking old gentle-

man, in a loose toga-like garment sat behind a big rose-

wood desk beside a tier of books that was lost in shadows

at the top. Through a wide, curtained window behind

him Blondel could see a stretch of flood-lit lawn. There

was an expensive odor of hand-rolled cigars and tooled

bindings and the kind of furniture wax which is applied by

hand at body heat according to a formula known only

to a secret guild of elves. Blondel shifted from one foot

to the other, and wondered what Maxwell was doing

now.

"Tell me frankly," the old gentleman leaned forward

and gave him a look that invited confidence, "why you

felt it necessary to run away." He had a voice like the

"amen" notes on an electric organ.

"Well—after all, I, ah, didn't know who you fellows

were," Blondel extemporized.

The old man said, "Ah," and nodded as though he

had found the explanation quite enlightening. "Of course.

Well, we shall quickly set that aright. I am the Tersh Jet-

terax." His tone indicated that he had just cleared up a

weighty mystery. "I have been assigned the responsibility

for the well-being of all citizens in this zone," he added,

with a smile like a good-natured professor rebuking his

star pupil for missing an easy one. "Your help will make

my task easier."

"Why should I want to make your task easier?" Blon-

del demanded.

"Why not?" The Tersh Jetterax smiled disarmingly.

"Well—you did invade the country," Blondel remind-

ed him.

"Ummm. An unfortunate turn of phrase. Why don't

you just think of us as kindly visitors?"

"Kindly visitors don't usually kick out the cops and

take over," Blondel pointed out.

"You resent our replacement of your police forces?"

The Tersh looked astonished. "But they were inefficient,

inadequate, unjust—"

"Still, they were my cops, not out-of-town slickers

with gas guns that turn healthy Irish tempers into vacant

looks!"

'''Your cops? Really, Mr. Blondel—how much did you,

personally, actually have to do with the administration

of police regulations, the appointment of police officers,

even with the formulation of the laws they were charged

to enforce?"

"Well, I had the right to vote for the legislators—

or whoever it is that decides to install parking meters

and No Left Turn signs...."

"Ummm. The Police Commission. And who appoints

them?"

"Beats me," Blondel admitted. "But—"

"Be candid, Mr. Blondel. Can you in conscience sup-

port a system which levies arrest quotas on uneducated

and underpaid factota who busy themselves by subject-

ing you to embarrassment, inconvenience, discourtesy,

detention and twenty-dollar fines for merely slowing to

two miles per hour instead of coming to a full stop when

crossing a deserted intersection—an intersection built

with your tax money—while the theft of your bicy-

cle or the rifling of your home by burglars goes uncor-

rected, nine times out of ten?"

"Not exactly, but—"

"We have merely replaced an ineffective system with a

just and efficient one; an imperfect government with one

totally dedicated to your welfare," the Tersh spelled out

placidly. "Now you can turn your attention to self-de-

velopment, secure in the knowledge that your society will

not capriciously penalize you for the enrichment or ag-

grandizement of inept or venal bureaucrats."

"If you don't mind my asking—why bother to convince

me? You've caught me. What happens now?"

"Mr. Blondel, you are the first of your fellow citi-

zens I've had the pleasure of talking to, face to face.

Your apparent unwillingness to co-operate with your new

government is a cause of deep concern to me."

"I didn't co-operate too well with the old one. I wouldn't

hold out much hope for any improvement."

The Tersh spread his hands and showed an Honest-

Bewilderment look. "My government will conduct your af-

fairs in accordance with the highest principles of your

own ethical systems."

"Thanks—but the fact is, we prefer to conduct our

own affairs in accordance with whatever principles strike

our fancies."

"This intense loyalty you apparently feel—to what is

it actually attached, Mr. Blondel?" The old man looked

at him as though he suspected him of holding out on the

secret of the Universe. "Is it the countryside, the

hills and trees? If so, rest assured we plan no major top-

ographical modifications. Is it the fluctuating roster of

persons who comprise the national population? They will

continue to thrive and, in fact, will find their lot vastly

improved. Is it the documents on which your previous re-

gime was nominally based? Let me put your mind at rest:

Our rule will be based on this same Constitution, more

faithfully interpreted than by your own elected officials."

"But at least they were elected," Blondel reminded

him.

"Your childlike confidence in the persons who count

the votes astonishes me." The Tersh smiled sympathetical-

ly. "And the nominees—they were your personal choices?"

"Maybe I wouldn't have picked the exact candidates,"

Blondel hedged, "but—"

"Mr. Blondel, do you actually have any knowledge

of how these high matters were conducted? Did you parti-

cipate, even by proxy, in the last-minute closed-door

convention sessions in which deals were made before the

final ballot? Do you know what the demonstrated poli-

cies of the participants were, their voting records, their

private interests, their political indebtednesses?"

"Confidentially, politics always kind of bored me,"

Blondel said.

The old gentleman gave Blondel a long sad look, and

heaved a patient-sounding sigh. He may or may not have

twiddled something under the edge of the desk; the door

opened behind Blondel. Two good-looking young men in

yellow came in, as crisp and snappy as something one ob-

tained by sending in cereal boxtops.

"Mr. Blondel," the Tersh said, sounding a little grieved,

"I would like very much for you to participate in the

short indoctrination course which I've set up to explain

our mission here to, ah, dissenters like yourself. I cannot,

of course, insist on your co-operation—but I ask you, as

one bearer of good will to another, to grant me this re-

quest."

"Have I got any choice?"

"Perhaps if you merely looked upon this as an oppor-

tunity to learn more about us ..."

There was a pause during which Blondel's imagination

ran through a number of potential alternatives.

"Well," he said. "As long as I'm here—why not?"

"Excellent!" The Tersh beamed. "And we will talk

again in a few days."

Blondel rose; the Monitors closed in.

"Ah—one other thing . . ." the Tersh said.

Blondel turned back.

"In view of your, ah, attitudes, Mr. Blondel—why did

you risk your life to save two of my Monitors?"

Blondel lifted his shoulders in a vague shrug. The Tersh

was looking baffled as Blondel went out into the hall.

Blondel's escort led him up a wide, white-bannistered,

red-carpeted staircase and along a wallpapered hall to a

big white door with a gold knob, standing ajar. Inside

there were rugs, a desk, bookcases, an easy chair, a table

and lamp, a four-poster, an inner door leading to a tile

bath, and a pair of windows with airy curtains and heavy

lined drapes, looking out on the lawn as exposed as a

billiard table under the lights.

The Monitors left with wishes for a nice sleep. Blondel

tried to close the door. It stuck tight, standing open an

inch. The room was less private than it appeared.

He tried out the shower, used a pair of purple-and-

yellow striped pajamas from the bureau drawer, crawled

in between heavy linen sheets. He went to sleep pondering

the problem of what the Tersh Jetterax hoped to accom-

plish by treating him like visiting royalty.

Blondel rose late the next morning. Downstairs, a dried-

up little man in old-fashioned butler's livery and a Hotel-

Splendide manner drew out a chair and offered ham and

eggs Stroganoff. He was on his second cup of hand-

brewed coffee when a Monitor came in and conveyed an

invitation to meet someone in the conservatory.

The latter turned out to be a cheery glassed-in porch

with tanks of fish, potted plants, bird cages, and high-

backed wicker chairs in one of which a long-legged, pipe-

smoking individual in a tweed jacket and a toothbrush

mustache was sitting relaxed. He puffed out blue smoke

with an odor of cookies baking, and waved Blondel to-

ward a chair next to a gray sphere like a metal beach

ball mounted on a stand.

"Good morning, Mr. Blondel," he called, full of early-

morning cheer. "Sleep well?"

"I've already had the opening lecture," Blondel told

him. "Maybe we could save time if you'll just skip ahead

to the 'consequences'?"

The man's bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows went up to

meet his bushy salt-and-pepper hairline.

"Mr. Blondel," his smile had stiffened a trifle, "please

let your fancy rest. We are precisely what the Tersh Jet-

terax has already told you—well-wishers to you and your

people. My name is Frokinil, and I hope we'll become

good friends."

Blondel sat down gingerly. "What do you get out of all

this?"

"The satisfaction of doing our duty."

"I mean, you, personally. What's your payoff? The High

Command going to set you up as Duke of Brooklyn, or

King of New Jersey?"

"You're talking nonsense, Mr. Blondel." The grin was

definitely glassy now. "I'm here to oversee the testing

program for the zone, and devise appropriate skill-dis-

tributions manifolds."

"Slave labor camps, eh?"

Frokinil tsked impatiently. "Mr.- Blondel, can't you rid

your mind of these grotesque stereotypes? Surely you're

too rational a man to be governed by mystical allegiances

to symbols that are violated daily, publicly, without so

much as a blush!"

"Frankly, the sight of you fellows walking around on

our real estate without a passport seems to arouse some

instincts I didn't know I had."

Frokinil leaned forward, preparing for a cozy intellec-

tual discussion. "Very well. To recognize one's own bias

is the beginning of insight. You act from an instinctive

impulse to perpetuate a regime which has the sanction of

tribal tradition." He stood briskly and motioned to the

metal globe on the stand.

"Just step here a moment, Mr. Blondel, if you will. I'd

like you to consider some facts." Blondel complied.

"Consider your typical elementary school . . ." Frokinil

flicked his fingers at the machine and its surface glazed,

became milky; a dazzling glow sprang up from it. Blondel

blinked and suddenly was standing just inside the door

of what was obviously an elementary school room,

with cut-outs of witches and pumpkins pasted on the

windows, and rows of children with faces as bright as toy

lanterns sitting with their hands folded, chanting raggedly

together:

". . . one-nation-inavisable-with-liberty-and-justice-

for-all."

"All right, you, Walter. I got my eye on you," a lumpy-

bodied little woman with an untidy bun of gray hair

said in a voice like a shutter on a haunted house.

"You just set quiet today, or you'll be back down to Mr.

Funder's office quicker'n a nigger'll steal whiskey."

A small boy hung his head and glanced sideways, left-

right.

"All right, now." The woman thumbed a bra strap back

in place and yanked down a wall map. "Get out yer

jogerfy books and turn to page nineteen." She picked up

a pointer and peered at the big colored map of the United

States; her lips moved silently. The kids thumped books,

flipped pages, fired a couple of fast paper wads. The lady

turned and stabbed with the pointer.

"Lucilla, tell 'em the names of the capitals of the

states." A small girl with tight braids promptly chirped:

"Muntgum, Reefeenix, L'il Rock ..."

"This prototype of wisdom and aesthetics is placed

before these impressionable young minds and charged

with the duty of drilling them in rotes." Frokinil's voice

came out of the air by Blondel's right ear. "The only

useful training being acquired here is some small skill in

ballistics."

The schoolroom faded into a misty glow that changed

shape like smoke cloud and congealed into a wide, airy

stretch of green grass under big trees. Groups of half a

dozen or so children were scattered across the park,

each accompanied by an adult in a toga. Some of them

seemed to be examining the bark of trees, or clumps of

leaves on low branches; others were kneeling, poking

in the earth. One group was gathered around a table, fid-

dling with glass retorts and tubes.

"Under the new order," Frokinil said, "teachers who

have devoted their lives to training for the practice of

this vital profession work to instill an understanding of

the realities of nature and art as the basis for true

wisdom. .. ."

"Sounds tougher than the three R's," Blondel contrib-

uted. "But will it pay union scale?"

". . . Of course," Frokinil was ploughing on, "not

all human minds are fully functional. There will be many

tasks for which mental defectives are suited. . . ."

The sunny lawn whiffed out of sight, and Blondel was

blinking at a long bare room where a row of slack-

faced youngsters in loose white garments like flour-bag

nightgowns sat on stools bleating and flapping their arms

at a camera. A flashbulb washed the walls with blue-

white; one of the inmates fell off his stool. A grim-looking

old woman in stiff grays yanked him up and jerked him

back in line.

"Your institutions for these unfortunates are little more

than zoos," Frokinil stated. "Those few capable of ab-

sorbing the skills of table waiting or fruit picking are re-

leased on society to make their own way, to breed freely,

reinfecting the stock with their defective genes. Under

the new system, they will receive appropriate training,

and will live carefully-controlled and supervised lives—

without the opportunity of propagating their tragedies."

"Kind of tough on the free idiots of the world," Blondel

noted.

"Consider the care given the indigent normal under the

old system," Frokinil bored on. The gloomy institutional

scene faded and they were standing by a long desk under

a sign that said ADMISSIONS. A thin little woman with a

caved-in face and a paper corsage was shaking her head

at a big, stolid-looking fellow with swarthy skin and an

acne-scarred face. He was supporting a barrel-shaped

woman with one arm. Her head lolled against his shoulder.

A clock on the wall showed two A.M.

". . . owe the hospital for the last confinement, Mr.

Orosco," the sharp-faced woman was saying. "If you can't

make advance payment, you'll have to take her else-

where."

"You goddam crazy, woman!" the man yelled. "Ra-

chel's gonna have the baby right now, maybe in one

minute! Where's a doctor?" He slammed a fist down

on the counter-top. "I gotta have a doctor for Rachel, I

got to have him now, son of a bitch . . . where's a doctor!"

The little woman whirled to a side door back of the

counter and met a husky young attendant coming in.

"He's cursing me, Timmy! The damn wetback—"

The swarthy man was moving toward a door marked

NO ADMITTANCE, dragging the woman with him. He was

swearing loudly in Spanish. The attendant ran to inter-

cept him. They grappled, and the woman fell. The man

stooped to her, and the attendant set himself and hit him

a terrific blow back of the ear. He went to his hands

and knees—

Blondel took a step and a hand caught his arm. The

scene faded and dissolved into bright mist.

"Calmly, Mr. Blondel," Frokinil chided. "This is merely

a recording, you know."

"You're nuts," Blondel said. "Nothing like that happens

in our hospitals. Doctors take an oath—"

"This scene, or variations of it, takes place hundreds

of times every day in virtually every hospital on the

continent. Not only are the sick and injured turned away

if they fail to show adequate financial resources, but mal-

practice—and I use the term within the context of your

own present-day medical knowledge—accounts for ap-

proximately thirty deaths per day, while hospital-acquired

infections account for a further—"

"OK, the hospitals are overloaded; but we're building

more."

"Not as rapidly as the population is increasing. Few

public facilities are keeping pace with births. And yet no

control whatever is exercised over the latter."

"There'll be legislation on that in a few more years—"

"You don't have a few more years, Mr. Blondel. And it

would have been a very long time before a fully effec-

tive program would have been initiated. Meanwhile, your

slums were proliferating..."

Blondel grabbed for support; he seemed to be float-

ing in mid-air, looking down on a narrow, grimy street

festooned with fire escapes and clotheslines. ". . . your

courts' backlogs increase . . ." The slum street dissolved

into an old-fashioned, high-ceilinged room packed with

spectators, lawyers, bailiffs, cops, bondsmen, defendants,

and relatives. A querulous-looking judge perched on the

bench, shuffling papers; his mouth twitched as though he

was needing a drink bad.

"Remanded to custody," he barked. "I'm setting the

hearing for . . ." he shuffled more papers. "I'll set the

date later, Harry," he said to a shifty-eyed fellow in a

chalk-stripe, who nodded. A lanky man with a hangdog

look grabbed his arm.

"Hey, I got a job to hold down. . . ." The sharpie shook

him off. The judge banged his gavel. The defendant was

still talking as the guard hustled him away.

". . . and so long as your legal profession was designed

primarily to generate legal fees the trend would never

have been reversed," Frokinil was saying blandly. "The

situation is no better with regard to higher education,

care of orphans, treatment of unwed mothers, the aged

and the infirm, minority groups, criminals—" Grim scenes

formed and faded like documentary D.T's. "Do you mean

me to believe, Mr. Blondel," Frokinil concluded in a gent-

ly reproving tone, "that all these abuses meet with your

full approval?"

"Why don't you stick to invading the country and skip

the complaints?" Blondel proposed. "If you don't like it

you can go back where you came from and let us handle

it our own way."

"What is your own way? Do you ever question the pro-

grams you read of in your favorite picture-magazine, or

even gain a true understanding of what they entail? Have

you any personal knowledge of the laws relating to the

insane, divorce, rape, insurance, marriage, suicide,

pure food, bankruptcy, misleading advertising, fraud, cit-

izen arrest, kidnaping, assault and battery, sodomy,

witchcraft—"

"What do you mean—witchcraft? We haven't believed

in that since the 1600's!"

"You're wrong, Mr. Blondel. Witchcraft is a punish-

able offense in parts of this zone today. What about the

laws governing use of liquor and narcotics, smuggling,

bearing arms—"

"I've got you on that one," Blondel cut him off. "It

says right in the Constitution that the right to bear arms

shall not be abridged."

"Your right to bear arms has been sharply abridged,

Mr. Blondel, and not without reason. There are also a

number of curious laws dealing with vagrancy, loitering,

trespass, zoning, et cetera; all affecting your personal

liberty, with which every citizen would do well to famil-

iarize himself—but the complexity of the codes makes that

impossible, of course, even if the desire were there,

which it isn't. We have changed all that. The new laws

are rational, enforceable and just, and will apply with ab-

solute impartiality to every citizen. There will be no more

bribes, graft, lobby pressure. . . ." Frokinil swam into

view as the fog dissipated to reveal the fish-tanks and

potted plants of the conservatory, and the little gray

sphere that had projected the pictures.

"You don't get the idea," Blondel told him. "We Amer-

icans aren't a bunch of Pavlov's pet poodles, standing

around waiting for a signal to get hungry. In this coun-

try—"

"—your opinions are moulded by an irresponsible press

which feeds on advertising accounts and state depart-

ment handouts designed to whitewash the latter. You trav-

el as you like—provided you've paid the appropriate tax-

es, passed the required inspections, have adequate funds,

and have no personal enemies on the police forces. You

eat whatever suits your tastes—if you can pay for it; you

spend your time as you wish—with the permission of

your employer—"

"I'm a free-lance pilot. If I don't like my job, I can

move on."

"You're fortunate. But still—you need some job. And

when your unregulated economy produces another de-

pression, you might find your keen sense of personal de-

termination yielding to the need for food and a warm

bed."

"OK, maybe it isn't Utopia—but we like doing it our

own way . . . without any help from a blimp-load of

foreigners!"

"Mr. Blondel . . ." Frokinil put a perfectly groomed

hand on Blondel's arm. "Think of the welfare of your

children—of future generations! Your petty nationalisms

of today will mean no more to them than Queen Boadicea

does to you!"

"My ancestors were on the other side."

"You're simply adopting a stance." Frokinil was begin-

ning to look exasperated. "You're not opening your mind

to what we're trying to show you! We offer you, at last,

what you've always dreamed of but never expected—per-

fect government, and you reject it because it did not

spring, miraculously, from those same imperfect function-

aries who have victimized you over the years!"

"I had the same chance as anyone else to be head-

man," Blondel pointed out. "I just never went in for poli-

tics."

"Politics—by which you mean a semiformalized sys-

tem for determining who will exploit the substratum; a

closed in-group of the initiated making a business of loot-

ing the common wealth—"

"That Socialist jargon gives me the sleepies, Mr. Frok-

inil," Blondel advised him.

"Can't I make you see it?" Frokinil frowned.

"Maybe I'm just too dumb to make a down payment

on a bargain in gold bricks," Blondel suggested. Frok-

inil flapped his arms.

"Here are you, a native of a world wealthy enough

to fulfill your every material requirement, member of a

race biologically advanced enough to provide every intel-

lectual and aesthetic satisfaction. Yet you live in uncer-

tainty, emotional impoverishment, even physical need,

your own potentialities unexplored and unfulfilled." Frok-

inil waved a hand in an expansive gesture. "What we

offer you is the inheritance due you, your innate right as a

man to enjoy the best fruits of existence."

"I've already got more rights than I know what to do

with," Blondel protested. "Just turn me loose and I'll get

on with what I was doing. As it happens, I've got a

lead on a job in Ecuador—"

"Poof!—I'm not referring to rewarding indolence with

official doles or the legislation of artificial social states. I'm

speaking of making use of your potentialities!"

"What potentialities?"

"Can you walk a tightrope, Mr. Blondel?"

"No—but—"

"Can you play the piano, the violin, the oboe? Can you

fence, juggle, carry out a qualitative analysis, identify

birdcalls, practice judo, medicine, or law? Can you type,

ride a unicycle, deal from the bottom of a deck, paint,

sculpt, apply a proper finish to wood? Have you knowledge

of ceramics, bookbinding, pole vaulting, mountain climb-

ing—"

"No, but I can fly that airplane," Blondel got in.

Frokinil nodded, smiling his saddest smile. "So you

can, Mr. Blondel, so you can." For some reason, that

seemed to end the conversation.

Later that afternoon, in a small classroom fitted with

elaborate visual aids, Blondel dozed fitfully as Frokinil

lectured persuasively on the beauties of the new regime:

"It's what you've always wanted: wise, honest govern-

ment," the invader concluded. "So won't you join in now,

and help rather than hinder the Liberation?"

"Howzzat?" Blondel came to with a start. "Oh, are

you still here?"

"Mr. Blondel!" Frokinil wailed. "I don't think you're

really trying to be fair!"

Blondel rose and stretched. "You just don't get the

idea, Frocky," he said. "Look at it this way. . . ." He

went to the blackboard, chalked two dots a foot apart.

"This is you Monitors," he indicated one dot. "This is

me, over here." He pointed to the other. "You can wipe

me out." He erased his dot with a swipe of his hand.

"But you can't move me over to your dot." He scribed

a circle around the latter. "That's your dot, and you're

in it all alone. . . ." He broke off at the look on Frokinil's

face. The instructor was gripping the back of a chair;

his eyes were squeezed shut.

"Take . . . take it away," he said in a choked voice.

Blondel looked around. "Take what away?"

"That . . . that diagram. Erase it—please—quickly!"

Puzzled, Blondel complied.

"OK, it's gone. You can come out now."

Frokinil opened one eye. He sighed hugely and almost

fell into a chair.

"What was that all about?"

"Just ... a momentary dizziness."

"Dizziness my left patella! What was there about a few

lines on a blackboard that would make a smoothie like

you stage a flipout?"

"Well, as a matter of fact—it was the . . . the circle

around the symbolic representation of ... of ourselves."

"Huh?"

"A small eccentricity." Frokinil managed a pale smile.

"Just as you, perhaps, have an irrational fear of heights,

so we suffer from what our scientists term 'fear of closure;

it has its roots in our early evolutionary history

when we were small, burrowing animals."

"I never knew you Bolsheviks considered yourselves

supermoles," Blondel said. "I suppose that's Lysenko's

latest noncapitalist theory."

"I've told you repeatedly—but never mind." Frokinil

stood, still pale. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this little

incident confidential. Rather embarrassing, you know—"

"And that's why more of the doors in this fancy jail

don't close," Blondel said.

"Please—let's just leave this our little secret," Frokinil

appealed. "Just consider it evidence that, after all, we

too have our little, er, human failings."

"It's evidence of something," Blondel agreed. "I'm not

sure what."

CHAPTER FOUR

At dinner that evening, Frokinil introduced two fellow

guests to Blondel. One was a small, round-shouldered youth

with untrimmed hair and fingernails, who ate his soup

with sound effects and didn't talk. His name was Pleech.

The other was a tall, ruddy-faced, hearty fellow, intro-

duced as Aunderson, who wore three lodge buttons on

his lapel. An expanse of expensive wrist watch and cuff

showed when he peeled his cigar.

As soon as the last of the Monitors had trailed Frokinil

from the room, Aunderson leaned toward Blondel. "What

do you think of the layout?" He shot the question from

the side of his mouth.

"They feed OK," he replied cautiously.

Aunderson hitched his chair closer. "They're care-

less," he hissed. "Overconfident. They leave doors open."

"So?"

He shot Blondel a sharp look, like a man listening to

criticism of mother's cooking. "Brother, don't you want

to get away from here?"

"I hadn't thought much about it."

Aunderson drew on the cigar and looked at Blondel

sideways. "By God, now I've heard everything," he

stated.

"They don't leave doors open by accident, man," Pleech

said in a breathy tone. "They're eyeballing every move."

The big fellow hitched his chair away from Blondel,

flicked his eyes at the corners of the room. "Place is

probably bugged," he muttered. He patted his pockets,

brought out a ball-point and a business card; he cupped

the card in his hand and jotted on it, passed it to Blondel

below table-top level.

"THE KID'S A FINK. DROP BY MY ROOM AFTER DARK."

Blondel sighed and tucked the card away. The trio

finished the meal in silence.

Back in his room, Blondel sat in the big soft chair

and listened to the small sounds going on elsewhere in

the house, remembering the previous afternoon: the big

gold blimps floating down; the crack troops in their yel-

low suits, and the blaring voices coming on over every

loud-speaker in the city, announcing that the invaders

had arrived.

He got up and took a turn up and down the room. So

far, the pattern had failed to fit Blondel's preconceived

notions of how an invasion should be managed. Where

were the dive bombers and the big guns and the para-

troopers and the tanks rumbling in through the rubble?

What were the Air Force and the Army doing against the

enemy? How much territory had been taken over? Had

the Pentagon hit back with the nuclear strike force or the

Polaris fleet? His right hand twitched in a reflex urge to

turn on a television set and get the Word.

There was a soft footfall outside and Aunderson poked

his face around the door, frowned at all four corners of

the room, then slid inside.

"Well, what do you think?" he whispered.

"Slim was right," Blondel said. "They leave the doors

open on purpose."

"Yes." Aunderson tipped his head toward the one he

had just come through. "Jammed open. They're watching,

all right."

"And listening."

The visitor clamped his jaw shut, prowled the room

looking under things, then sat on the edge of the bed and

jiggled a foot. Blondel waited. Outside a light wind made

a sighing sound in the branches of a tree.

"What do you think of their story?" Aunderson mut-

tered suddenly. He gave the appearance of trying to talk

without moving his lips.

"Sounds good," Blondel said. Aunderson's head jerked.

"Too good," Blondel added. Aunderson relaxed.

"You ... ah ... have any plans?" Aunderson watched

the toe of his shoe.

"I plan to rub GI soap in my armpit," Blondel said

from the side of his mouth. "I'll run a fever; when they

take me away to the hospital I'll steal a jug of medicinal

brandy and shack up in a broom closet with a redheaded

nurse until they go away."

Aunderson's head jerked again. "This is no time for

boffs, fellow," he said sternly. "What kind of American

are you?"

"I tear up traffic tickets and chisel on my income

tax right along with the rest of you," Blondel reassured

him. "I'm no scab."

"Just after dinner would be the best time," Aunderson

said. "They overeat. Makes 'em sluggish."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely."

"Tonight would be better." Blondel was not moving his

lips either.

"Eh?"

"While they're asleep."

Aunderson hitched a little closer, listening intently for

the details. "Go on, fellow."

"That's all," Blondel said. "Don't play dumb. Go back

to your room and stand by. I'll let you know."

Aunderson stood up. "Any, ah, preparations I ought

to make?"

"Naturally. Tear all your sheets into two-inch strips.

Better go into the john to do it. If they see you they

might catch wise. Work quietly and keep your lips but-

toned."

"The door won't close." Aunderson blushed a little.

"Get behind it."

"And knot them together?"

"Not unless your lips are a lot looser than mine."

"I mean the sheets."

"Naturally. Don't waste my time with routine questions.

I assume your inoculations are in order?"

"What's that? You mean cholera, typhoid, and so on?"

"I don't mean hiccups."

"As it happens, Myrtle and I took a South American

cruise just last fall. I think I've got them all."

"That's it, then. And check all suspicious sounds, odors,

and moving lights."

"Right." He stood. Halfway through the door he turned,

back. "Who are you with? FBI? CIA? SOS?"

"KGGF."

"That's a radio station."

"Sure—do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Sorry. They, ah, in touch with you?"

"You didn't think all those pigeons outside were wild,

did you?"

"What pigeons? I didn't see any pigeons."

"That's the idea; deny everything. Better get going

now. A lot to do before midnight."

He nodded and went away. Blondel stretched out on

the bed and wondered about some of the people on Our

Side.

Ten minutes later a board creaked. Blondel sat up,

expecting to see Frokinil appear, full of optimism and

statistics. Nothing happened. Blondel rose and went to

the door, put his head out. Aunderson was just disap-

pearing down the stairs, carrying a pair of highly-polished

Scotch grain brogans under his arm. Blondel stepped

out and went along to the head of the stairs, saw Aund-

erson go through an archway down below. He listened for

a few seconds, then went down after him. The arch led

into a small dark room; Blondel picked his way over

mops and brooms, came out in a papered hall. He could

hear voices off to the left. The door they were coming

from was open an inch or so.

". . . tearing sheets into strips," Aunderson was saying.

"And—"

"But, my dear sir, it's not at all necessary for you to

barter for special consideration!" The Tersh Jetterax sound-

ed upset. "I assure you, after your testing is complete,

you'll each be recommended for appropriate training—"

"Look here, I'm not some kind of farmer or manual

laborer." Aunderson sounded indignant. "I can face facts;

I know which way the wind's blowing. I saw those big

yellow airships and—"

"Please, sir! I appreciate your advising me of poor Mr.

Blondel's misguided plans, but there is nothing I could

promise you that you will not receive freely, as a gift

due you as a member of the human race!"

"Now, look! I may be a prisoner of war—well, hell

yes, your boys nailed me fair and square, I concede that—

but a man like me can be a big help to you—"

"Mr. Aunderson, it is you I wish to help! Of course,

in the case of Mr. Blondel, I see that it will be neces-

sary to use more, ah, direct measures to establish a true

personality-rapport; but this is only in his own interest, of

Course."

"Uh—you're not figuring on messing around with my

personality?" Aunderson sounded worried now.

"I do hope that won't be necessary. . . ."

Blondel faded back along the hall, inspired by a sud-

den urge to put distance between the kindly Tersh's per-

sonality alterers and himself. While his ego wasn't much,

he conceded, it was the one he had come in with and

he had a lively desire to keep it the way it was, flaws

and all.

Around the first corner, light shone from a half-open

door. Blondel peeked inside. The bearded youth from

the dinner table was standing by a bookcase with a folio-

size volume in his hands. He looked up and saw Blondel.

"The wildest, man." He hefted the book. "Like it's the

stripiest."

"You bet," Blondel agreed. "Lots of pretty pic-

tures, hey?" He went across and scanned the view from

the windows: the usual expanse of spot-lit grass stretching

across to a fieldstone wall, dotted with well-tended trees

and shrubs. There were Monitors standing here and

there, apparently admiring the view of the night sky.

"It's Chillsville, pop. Like a joint direct from the hand

of the Big Pusher in the Sky!" Pleech enthused.

"Listen," Blondel said, "we've got to get out of here."

He went past him and looked along the side of the house

toward the rear. Maybe it was a little darker back there

and maybe not.

"You're not bagging it, gramps! I'm all for these kids!

They're swingers, square threads and all! Like their

word is: a pad for every cat, and a chick in every pad!"

"I thought the chicken went in the pot," Blondel cor-

rected, "and two cars in every garage."

Pleech looked dubious. "I heard of cutting it with a

little chicory and shredded Sunday funnies, but feathers

are a new kick." He frowned. "What was that line about

getting out of here?"

"I was pulling your leg. Go on with your reading. I

was just looking for the root cellar."

"Cool it, dad." Pleech dropped the book and slouched

over to stand between Blondel and the door. "You think

these cubies are lining us? Like maybe it's just a ride on

the dreamy?"

"I'll let you know after I cast my horoscope. Meanwhile

don't go into any business deals without first checking

them closely, and beware of smooth-talking Capricorns."

Blondel started past Pleech, who put his back against the

wall by the door. One hand dipped inside his black shirt

and came out with a three-inch spring blade. He pointed

it at Blondel and curved his mouth in a cat-smile.

"Don't go making no waves, pops," he said. His tone

was a lot more businesslike now. "What's with the snoop

routine? You not splitting without saying hang loose?"

"How'd they happen to pick you up?" Blondel stalled.

"Some flattie in yellow threads like bugs me, man. I

bugged him back. But that was when I didn't dig the

scene. Now I can see its Groovesville all the way. Like,

we're in, dad. So don't go breaking the scene with no like

reactionary hang-ups."

"I hear they plan to remove our brains and install

monkey glands. That might boost your I.Q. a little, but

would it be the real you?"

"Hand me back my leg, man. Me and old Jitters are

making it good; we're like pals. And lay off the cracks

about my intellect, which is of the highest." He poked

the knife out just far enough; Blondel brought a hard

chop down on the pressure point just below the elbow.

Pleech yipped and the knife dropped; when he ducked

for it, Blondel gave him a sharp knee under the ear.

Pleech went backward and sat up holding his jaw.

"You knocked my tooth out," he reported.

"Put it under your pillow for the good fairy to find,"

Blondel suggested. "Now you'd better move over to that

closet." He indicated a door across the room. Pleech

rolled his eyes and hunched his way back to it. Inside,

there were shelves stacked with paper and office sup-

plies, including two-inch paper tape. Blondel bound

Pleech's wrists and ankles with the latter, then strapped

his hands behind him.

"Open up," he ordered. Pleech gave him a startled

look and dropped his jaw. "Hey—"

"Thanks." Blondel jammed an art-gum inside, then

taped his mouth, not neglecting a couple of loops over

the mop of hair and under the chin.

"You may have to shave the beard to get rid of that,"

he advised, "but try to think of it as being better than

a cut throat." Blondel shoved the trussed collaborator

in among the duplicator fluid cans on the floor and went

softly back out into the silent hall.

Blondel followed the corridor back past the dining

room, took a right turn, and found himself in the kitchen.

A fat man with apple cheeks and a white chef's cap

beamed at him and went on kneading a table full of

dough. Blondel backed out, soft-footed on along the

hall, through a dark room full of potted rubber plants

and marble-topped tables, emerged in a room with fancy

chandeliers, and a set of curtained French doors that

opened silently onto a terrace. A pair of red coleus

plants in wooden tubs provided a patch of dense shadow

in which to stand.

Out on the lawn, Monitors strolled in leisurely fashion,

taking the evening air. Beyond them, the high, dark barrier

of the hedge loomed, fifty yards away.

Blondel waited for a moment when the coast was rela-

tively clear, then hitched up his pants, swallowed hard,

stepped out and headed across the lawn at a brisk walk.

He had covered about half the distance before somebody

called—yelled would be too strong a word. Blondel put

his head down and sprinted. He zigged and zagged to

confuse any tacklers, made the bushes with the kind of

spurt that wins gold medals under more favorable cir-

cumstances, and was slamming through tough thorny

stuff that ripped at him like fine-gauge barbed wire. He

ploughed on, bounced off a denser mass of rubbery

branches and leaves, clawed his way through a barrier

like the fence around the nurses' quarters at a hardship

post. Twice he went down hard, but came up still digging,

finally burst through into the clear and was back on the

lawn, six feet from where he had first dived into the

hedge, watching no more than fifty stalwart young athletes

in gold suits converging from three sides. He backed a

step, took a gouge in the hip pocket from the thorns,

tried a dash to the right. A Monitor loomed before him,

friendly smile in place, one hand upraised. Blondel ducked

under it, pelted for the front of the house.

At that moment, with an ominous rumble, something

large and dim in the gloom burst through the hedge di-

rectly in his path. He shied, saw light glint on an armored

prow above rubber-shod tracks. There was a dull woof!

and a white mist jetted from orifices low on the tank's

sides. Blondel caught a whiff of fresh-cut hollyhocks,

turned to run in a new direction, felt himself keeling over

slowly like a wax figure left too long in the sun. On all

fours he saw the heavy machine lumber forward, halt

beside him. A hatch popped up and a dark figure jumped

down, bent over him. He tried to gather his strength for

a swing, fell on his face instead. Hands gripped his

arms, pulled him to his feet. His eyes focused on a pair

of boots, sole-up on the lawn, connected to a set of

yellow-clad legs. There was another supine Monitor be-

yond the first, two more in sight beyond him, . . .

Then the hands dragged him back, lifted him, thrust

him through a narrow opening into dim light, dumped

him on cold metal and webbing. There was a deep-throat-

ed roar, a surge of motion as the canopy thumped down,

cutting off the flow of cold air.

"About time," someone was saying over the rumble of

engines. "We've been hovering in the underbrush for six

hours, waiting for you to show yourself."

Blondel got a firm grip on his head, swung it around

far enough to see a curly head of dark hair and a set

of horn-rims.

"Hey," he said weakly. "This is ... I was . . . you

were . . ."

"Take it easy," Maxwell said. "You didn't think we'd

run out on you, did you?"

CHAPTER FIVE

After a quarter of an hour, the fumes had cleared

sufficiently from Blondel's head to enable him to sit up

and look around at a corrugated metal floor, a padded

curve of door, the clear plastic canopy and a spread of

lighted instrument faces before which Maxwell and an-

other man sat, hunched forward over a small screen that

threw a theatrical light on their faces. Blondel saw that

it was an illuminated map, unreeling steadily across, the

frame. Maxwell glanced up. "Ah, you're feeling better,"

he called over the shrill of wind and the roar of the

engines.

"I guess so. What's going on?"

Maxwell pointed to a glowing blue dot at the center of

the screen.

"This is our present location. We made the pickup

here"—he indicated a spot on the map—"and our

destination is to the north of here." He tapped the upper

edge of the screen.

Blondel fought back a sensation of seasickness induced

by the swaying, bobbing motion of the vehicle. "This

is quite a machine you've got here," he said. "Who owns

it, the Army?"

Maxwell patted it affectionately. "Our Z-car has been

quite a little surprise to the enemy. Radar-negative, nu-

clear-powered, impregnably armored. Nothing they've got

can touch it." He frowned. "Everything works but the

guns. I'll have to speak to the General about that."

"General who?"

Maxwell pursed his lips, cast an oblique look at Blondel.

"After what you've been through, I assume you're ready

to join the fight in an active capacity?"

"Urn," Blondel said. Maxwell nodded, as though this

were the countersign. "As I told you earlier," he said,

"there were some of us who were not entirely unprepared

for the present situation."

"By the way, what is the present situation?" Blondel

cut in. "How much of a beachhead have they estab-

lished? What's our side doing?"

"The enemy controls New York, Philly, Boston—the

whole eastern seaboard, as far as we've been able to

reconnoitre," Maxwell said gruffly. "Every city and town

seems to have its quota of the scoundrels."

"Where have we hit back? Are their troops on the

move? Any armor? What about air action? Any infantry

dropping in to secure the ground?"

"Curiously, they seem content for the present merely

to, er, occupy the country," Maxwell conceded.

"They're content? What about us—has there been

much bloodshed?"

Maxwell shook his head. "Not yet—insofar as we

know."

"What's the Pentagon doing?"

"Nothing." Maxwell clamped his jaw. "There hasn't

been a peep from Washington. We did have a verbal re-

port from a pair of refugee bureaucrats that the capital

is heavily invested by the enemy and that the President

was last seen headed west in a used station wagon—but

of course, that's merely hearsay."

"What about our allies—Britain, Liberia, Tierra del

Fuego?"

"You forgot Lebanon." Maxwell looked grave. "All

occupied, it appears. None of them have cashed their

first-of-the-month aid checks."

"This is really serious!" Blondel exclaimed.

Just then the radio went beep! and a fruity voice said:

"Hi, fans! This is Happy Horinip, with your latest Progress

Bulletin! It's a pleasure to report that Block 354, Zone

67—remember to look at your wall chart, if the new

terminology is still a little confusing—Block 354 is the

winner of this hour's co-op award! Yes sir, Block 354

has topped some keen competition to fulfill their registra-

tion quota a record four minutes, twelve seconds early!

Congrats, Block 354, and there'll be an official Quota

Toppers club emblem and pennant on the way to

you...."

"Is that... ?"

"That's them," Maxwell said grimly over the patter.

"They've adopted this approach on all their late-night

spots. Early in the morning, they use what we've designated

the HTM—Hi There Moms—format, and at 4:46 P.M.

they switch to code AYC—All You Commuters. Our top

psych men are trying to crack the implication of it but,

so far, no luck."

". . . now for a couple of requests." The Monitor's

voice was still registering barely suppressed elation.

"Here's a card signed Bunny and Whitey . . ." Max-

well whipped out a notebook, began writing, his head

cocked to the speaker.

"Bunny," he muttered. "We're compiling a master list

of collaborationists," he said over his shoulder. "Whitey.

. . . We already have over seven hundred thousand

names on it, and that's after less than thirty-six hours."

He closed the book with a snap and looked resolute.

"After the Liberation, we'll see about some of these

fellow travelers."

"What outfit are you with?" Blondel yelled over the

thump and jangle of the record Bunny and Whitey had

requested.

"Blondel, have you ever heard of the Special Counter

Retaliatory Action Group?" Maxwell looked solemn.

"Nope."

"We in SCRAG," Maxwell said, "have, for over two

years, had as our prime mission preparation for the in-

evitable day of contact with a technologically superior

power. This vehicle in which we're now traveling"—he

thumped it—"is merely one example of the sort of thing

we've held in reserve for the crisis."

"SCRAG—is that some kind of governmental depart-

ment?"

Maxwell pushed his lips out, indicating cautious con-

firmation. "Actually, our funds have come in part from,

ah, private contributions, with the balance made up

through a special allocation to the Summer Program of

Leisure-Time Undertakings for Retired Government Em-

ployees."

"I think I've heard of that one." Blondel nodded. " 'A

Sunnier Senility for Senior Civil Servants.' Isn't that their

motto?"

"Something like that. At any rate, suffice it to say

that virtually unlimited funds and the best efforts of some

of the finest brains in the country have gone to prepare

the Group to meet any threat the Enemy could throw

at us. As you can see, this vehicle is a special model,

superior to anything our armed forces have at their dis-

posal; all of our equipment is equally advanced."

"Why don't the Army and the Air Force have it?"

Maxwell looked astounded. "My God, man, you know

as well as I the military services are riddled with sub-

versives!"

"Oh."

"No." Maxwell nodded. "SCRAG knows how to keep

her secrets. Our network of underground installations

were planned and constructed with a view to maximum

security combined with optimum strike capability. Of

course we've suffered from a chronic shortage of quali-

fied personnel, but we've always felt that a small elite

cadre was preferable to an unwieldy roster of unre-

liables."

Blondel cleared his throat and tried to look reliable.

Maxwell cocked an eye at him. "I've seen you in action,

Blondel," he said crisply. "I like your style. I know a

one-hundred-per-cent American when I see one."

"Of course my parents were immigrants," Blondel con-

fided. "But maybe you'll forgive that."

"Say, don't get the wrong idea about us." Maxwell

chuckled tolerantly. "SCRAG isn't some kind of wild-

haired extremist group out to make the world safe for blue-

eyed Protestants. We don't give a damn about a man's

race, color, or creed. All we're interested in is his loyalty

to his country." His chin got firm. "And I think we can

agree that anyone who wants to hand this nation over

to a foreign power to run needs his marbles counted."

"Any idea where these lads in yellow come from?"

Blondel countered. "What kind of fire-power they're hold-

ing in reserve, if the spot commercials don't do the job

for them?"

Maxwell nodded. "We've definitely pinpointed their ori-

gin as being somewhere east of the Urals. We've got

some pretty fancy radar-type gear that recorded their

blips almost three minutes before the moment at which

their landings took place: 3:26 P.M., Eastern Daylight

Saving Time, last Wednesday."

"Oh." Blondel scratched his chin. "How did you know

where I was?"

"I planted a sounder on you." Maxwell smiled wisely.

"Subcutaneous, little needle the size of a human hair."

The raucous sounds from the radio stopped, and five

seconds of silence ensued. Then: "Mr. Blondel," the Tersh

Jetterax's voice came from the speaker, "I'm most dis-

appointed that you left us before viewing the remainder

of the orientation. I feel that we were making splendid

progress. It is, after all, men of action like yourself whom

we need most urgently in our task of bringing the New

Dawn to your people. Since you wish so strongly to leave

us, I shan't press the point. But if you should change

your mind, simply notify one of your friendly Monitors."

"Oh-oh, I'll bet they're on our tail," Blondel hissed

in Maxwell's ear.

"No—radar's clear. They know better than to tangle

with one of our Z-cars." Maxwell was eyeing Blondel with

sudden suspicion. "That chap seems to think you planned

to defect."

"Well—he did try to recruit me," Blondel said, "but

I didn't sign anything."

"Ummm. . . . That's not good, Blondel. Did they use

any drugs on you, any electronic devices—flashing lights,

monotonous voices, that sort of thing?"

"They showed me a few pictures and tried to sell me

on a retraining program," Blondel conceded. "But it was

pretty routine stuff."

"Describe it."

Blondel delivered a five-minute briefing on Frokinil's

plans for developing the population's latent talents.

"Tap dancing, eh?" Maxwell frowned and chewed his

lip. "The General isn't going to like this."

"I wasn't crazy about it myself."

"Well . . . we'll have to defer any decision until the

General's seen you."

"Decision about what?"

"About your future usefulness to SCRAG, of course."

"Oh." Fighting a slight uneasiness, Blondel made him-

self comfortable with his back to the wall and watched

the map unreel as the car headed northwest over rough

ground at a speed he estimated at something over 100

MPH.

He awoke stiff and fuzz-eyed from a dream of being

sent over Niagara Falls in a barrel of cement, groped his

way out into crusty snow and a temperature that would

have seemed mild to a Polar bear. Across a wide sweep

of tracked white a big rustic lodge, built of logs like a

Viking mead hall, reared up against a backdrop of blue-

black spruce and star-sequined sky. There were lights

in the building, and more lights bobbing around outside

it. A carbon arc on a derrick built of timber cut a path

across to where he stood. Maxwell made semaphoring

motions with his arms and it swung away. A dog was

barking somewhere, and a man's voice was calling some-

one's name. The sounds had the edge-irritating quality

that such things take on with insufficient sleep.

Maxwell told Blondel to follow him; together they

stamped across the snow, went up on a wide porch with

benches and ski racks, and a big iron-banded door with

a round pink-and-yellow glass in it. A small, plump man

in shirt-sleeves was holding it open and hugging himself.

Inside, there were steps up to a broad hall with coat

racks loaded with mackinaws and parkas; then more steps

led down into a big roughhewn room with a high beam

ceiling, all dark wood and antlers and Indian rugs. The

fireplace at the far end was ten feet wide, faced with

fieldstone; in it a pair of six-foot logs blazed away like

the Chicago fire. A tall, lean, high-shouldered man stood

with his back to the flames, feet planted apart, hands

behind his back. He wore riding breeches and boots, and

a red flannel shirt open to show gray winter underwear

at the neck. His face was vague against the light; but he

seemed to have a thick, Mussolini-type nose, a straight

line for a mouth, thick slicked-back white hair and a

jaw like a power shovel—not big, but capable of biting

hard.

Maxwell went across to him, swung around to wave a

hand at Blondel in a gesture like an MC introducing a

featured act.

"General Blackwish, Mr. Blondel."

The general gave Blondel an up-and-down look, then

did a right-face and took three steps, executed a left

about-face and came back, finished off with a snappy

right-face and came back to parade rest.

"You want to be a member of the SCRAG team, do

you, Blondel?" His voice was startlingly high and thin,

almost a falsetto.

"Well, not exactly, General," Blondel said. "Actually,

I was sort of thinking I'd just grab a night's sleep and

be on my way." Blondel gave Blackwish a hopeful smile;

the general's look shriveled it in mid-air. "To Ecuador,

maybe," Blondel amplified. His voice seemed to have a

loud, lonely sound in his own ears. "On personal busi-

ness ..."

Blackwish had thick black brows that grew in a heavy

bar. His eyes looked out from the shadows like a matched

pair of black opal stickpins. They bored into Blondel's

face for a full ten-second count, then flicked past him

to Maxwell.

"General, I think Blondel's a little tired—" Maxwell

started.

"Colonel, I understood you to describe the pickup as

a highly-motivated, loyal American!" The general's voice

had gone a tone or two higher and acquired an edge like

a meat saw.

"Well, now, General, I'm sure that what Blondel meant

was—"

"Personal business, eh?" Blackwish drowned him out.

"His country invaded by a foreign power dedicated to

the destruction of the American Way of Life, and he's

concerned about his overseas business interests! You call

that Americanism?"

"Well, it's not exactly business interests, General,"

Blondel soothed. "More of a job. Actua—"

"What job can compare with the duty of hurling the

borsht-and-vodka-swilling enemy back from our shores?"

Blackwish's face had moved forward until his nose was

six inches from Blondel's. He caught an aroma of Scotch

mingled with a ruggedly masculine after shave. "You're

content to hear the tramp of booted foreign feet in your

country's peaceful streets? The jabber of alien voices in

the shrines of Democracy? The thunder of gunfire, mow-

ing down your fellow Americans?"

"They speak English," Blondel pointed out. "And I

haven't seen them shoot anybody—"

"That's beside the point!" Blackwish raised both hands

as if to call down lightnings. "They're invaders! Do you

realize that this is the first time since the birth of our

nation that the tramp of booted foreign feet has sounded

in our peaceful streets?"

"Well, the British got as far as Washington—"

"And were hurled into the sea! Would you tuck your

tail between your legs now, with the jabber of alien voices

sounding in the shrines of Democracy, and scuttle off

to safety in wherever-it-was?"

"I thought maybe I'd give it a try, inasmuch as the

Air Force—"

"Riddled with subversives!" Blackwish shrilled. "Went

over to the enemy in a body! Not a sortie's been flown,

not a bomb dropped, while the enemy swills borsht and

vodka on U.S. soil and their guns mow down loyal Amer-

icans, unresisted!"

"Ah, General," Maxwell eased a word in edgeways.

"I think what Mr. Blondel meant was—"

"You sponsored this fellow, brought him here, to my

secret headquarters!" Blackwish blasted him down.

"What's your excuse, Colonel? You know security regula-

tions!"

"Yes, indeed, General. I just wanted to point out that

Mr. Blondel did wreck an enemy chopper, and that he

..." Maxwell shot Blondel a look pregnant with obscure

meanings, ". . . penetrated enemy headquarters at Pulaski

and brought out important intelligence regarding their

brainwashing scheme."

Blackwish opened his mouth and closed it with a snap

like a carp taking a bare hook.

"Brainwashing scheme?"

"It's insidious as hell, sir," Maxwell said admiringly.

"The idea seems to be that they'll offer to teach grease

monkeys to become ballet dancers and, er, acrobats, and

thus lure them into their toils—"

"What self-respecting grease monkey would want to

become a toe dancer?" the general bellowed. "Don't these

fellows know they're dealing with Americans?"

"That's just a rough idea, of course," Maxwell said

quickly. "Blondel can fill you in on the whole picture."

"Well, what about it?" Blackwish snapped his eyes

at Blondel. "Never mind the window dressing. What have

they got in the way of firepower?"

"I didn't see any guns, but maybe they don't need

them. They've got other things."

"Such as?"

Blondel described the eerie experience of being walked

from his car as though his legs belonged to someone

else. "And to judge from the tricks they can play with

radios and TV's, it's a safe bet they've got more up their

sleeves than we've seen so far."

"Is that all you learned, Mr. Blondel?" Blackwish

showed him a set of square-cut store teeth.

"Just about—plus the fact that they seem eager not

to do any damage."

"Hmmph! Indeed!" Blackwish snapped his fingers. A

bow-legged nautical type, who had been hovering in the

wings, came over.

"Bring me File Y," the general commanded.

The trio stood in chilly silence, listening to the fire

crackle, while Blackwish took two more turns up and

down the quarter-deck. The sailor came back and hand-

ed him a black leather folder as big as a Chinese menu.

He snapped it open.

"Less than seventy-two hours after initial contact,

the enemy had demolished over forty-one square miles

of Metropolitan New York," he said crisply, and flipped

the page. "In Philadelphia, twenty-one square miles of

the municipal area have been similarly razed." He flipped

another page. "In Boston, fifteen square miles. The fig-

ures are approximate, of course."

"They've blasted the cities?" Blondel frowned.

"There, ah, wasn't necessarily any actual bloodshed,"

Maxwell put in, then faded back under Blackwish's glare.

"No actual bombs were employed, it appears," the

general said grudgingly. "Some sort of, er, instantaneous,

ah, disintegrator ray was employed—if my reports are

correct." He closed the folder.

"Could I see that, General?" Blondel held out a hand.

Blackwish put the folder behind him. "Certainly not! This

is classified material!"

"In that case, I guess I don't believe you," Blondel

said. "Disintegrator rays, yet." He folded his arms and

looked scornful.

Blackwish bridled like a southern matron encountering

a colored citizen in the front of the bus.

"You're questioning my word?"

"I don't know you from Adam," Blondel pointed out.

"Maxwell here has dropped a few dark hints that your out-

fit is responsible for the last few unbalanced national

budgets; but that's just talk. What are you a general in,

the Salvation Army?"

"I hold my commission as Brigadier-General of State

Militia," Blackwish snarled. "I'm hardly accountable to

a civilian—"

"Er, Mr. Blondel has been through a lot, General,"

Maxwell interjected. "His nerves are frayed. I think we

ought to forget this little meeting—we "seem to have got-

ten off on a couple of bad feet—and get together in the "

morning, eh?"

"I'd like to see the proof that the Monitors have ac-

tually wiped out our cities," Blondel said. "Then maybe

there'll be something to talk about."

Blackwish sucked in a breath—about a bellow and

a half's worth—but Maxwell slid smoothly into the gap:

"That's easy enough, eh, General? We're in dire need of

good men, here at SCRAG—and, naturally, a man has

a right to know the enemy. Why don't we just show

him the photos, sir, let him grasp the full extent of the

atrocities these fellows have carried out while prating of

peace and good will?"

Blackwish grunted, worked his lips around a little,

then shoved the folder at Maxwell. Maxwell opened it and

pulled out an eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossy, passed

it over to Blondel. It was a clear shot from about

ten thousand-feet, obscured by a little early evening haze

and a king-sized fingerprint. But it showed clearly that

the city of New York looked like a dingy birthday cake

with a rectangular slice lifted out of the middle. The

edges of the annihilated area were as smooth and straight

as if they had been planed off by a power mower,

leaving a vacant stretch as clean as a morgue slab.

"Philadelphia," Maxwell said crisply, and handed over

a second shot. This time the wiped-out area was in a

thick L shape, taking in a good half of the city. The

view of Boston was equally discouraging.

"These were shot about eight hours ago," Maxwell

said. "Just before we set out to collect you."

"How did you manage to get that close? They've got

blimps and copters."

"For some reason we haven't yet cracked, they don't

molest our copters except to render the firearms aboard

inoperative."

"Were there any military objectives in those areas?"

"None whatever," Maxwell said flatly.

"Those were some of the most densely-populated urban

areas on the North American continent!" Blackwish

stated heatedly. "Uncounted thousands of our fellow

citizens have been rendered homeless by this dastardly

act of unprovoked ferocity!"

"I wonder what the point was?"

"I think that's clear enough!" Blackwish snorted.

"This was intended as a warning—a sample of the brutal

power and vicious intent of the invader! But they under-

estimate the fighting spirit of America! Rather than in-

timidating us, these barbaric acts serve only to rein-

force our determination to throw the borsht-and-vodka-

swilling scoundrels into the sea!"

"That's only a part of the picture," Maxwell contrib-

uted. "According to their own admissions, they've closed

down every school in the country. The hospitals have

been taken over and placed under what we've termed a

gauze curtain, with all admissions controlled by the en-

emy. The same with the prisons; they boast of having

released vast numbers of psychotic killers on the

streets—"

"Claim to have cured 'em," Blackwish piped up.

"Tommyrot! You don't cure that kind of human debris!

If I had my way, we'd put an end to coddling and make

more use of the death penalty!"

"Our computers indicate that no more than two hun-

dred thousand troops have been landed so far," Maxwell

stated. "The time for our counterstrike is now, before

they're massively reinforced."

Blackwish rubbed his hands together. "These fellows

are in for a little surprise! They imagine we're beaten,

cowering to the tramp of booted foreign feet and the

thunder of enemy gunfire—"

"And the jabber of alien voices in the shrines,"

Maxwell reminded him.

"Well put, Maxwell. But we have a trick or two up

our sleeves, eh, Colonel?"

"Right, sir!"

"What kind of surprise were you thinking of, Gen-

eral?" Blondel queried.

"During the past two years, we've not been idle,"

Blackwish stated, nodding in agreement with what he

was saying. "Our laboratories—the finest in the land,

manned by scrupulously reliable personnel, all with im-

peccable security records, of course—have come up with

a number of devices which will make the invader regret

the day that he left his borsht and vodka to tackle

America!"

"You must have an impressive complex of labora-

tories," Blondel commented. "Where are they?"

"In the basement, of course."

"You mean—just one basement?"

"Well, our boys didn't exactly invent anything,"

Maxwell clarified. "We tended to concentrate our em-

phasis on technical intelligence work, and I think I can say

that our chaps are among the most adept in the field."

"They've rifled the files of every supersecret agency

in the government." Blackwish almost beamed. "Turned

up some remarkable items, buried in the vaults by the

subversives who have been entrusted with the nation's

security." He rubbed his hands together.

"Well, what about it Blondel? Are you with us? Do

you want a part in the Great Struggle? Are you an

American patriot, or are you not?"

"I have a feeling a new design for a WAC's brassiere

isn't going to help much," Blondel said. "Or, for that

matter, a vest pocket H-bomb. Technically, these Mon-

itors are out in front like a co-ed's frat pin."

"Hah! You jape, sir!" Blackwish looked triumphant.

"But we hold a weapon in reserve which will exceed your

wildest expectations—and those of the enemy as well!"

"And we're pretty sure it will be undetectable," Max-

well added. "It employs an entirely new destructive

principle—and it's small enough to carry in your coat

pocket."

"I don't see what good tossing hand grenades is go-

ing to do," Blondel objected. "The Monitors are scattered

all over the country, and I don't think they're going to

stand around and let you sneak up on them one at a

time."

"Grenades, pah!" Blackwish chirped. "This is no

toy, sir, but a weapon of truly hellish power!"

"And we don't plan to pop off Monitors one at a

time," Maxwell put in. "We're carrying out an intensive

search for their headquarters; not the little field HQ

from which I plucked you, Blondel, but their central base

of operations. When we do—blooie!"

"I think you've said enough," Blackwish announced.

"More than enough. It's time Mr. Blondel declared him-

self. What about it, sir? Are you with us—or against

us?"

"General, I think you're going at the whole thing

wrong," Blondel told him. "Even if you could blow Mon-

itors up wholesale—which I doubt, frankly—it's not a

move that's likely to do our side any good. Up to now

they've kept things on a high plane—lots of propaganda,

but no firing squads. But if you succeed in murdering

some of them—"

"Bah, sir! We've no time for the counsels of molly-

coddles! They've asked for violence! They'll get it by

God, with bells on!"

"All you'll do is stir up reprisals. What we need is a

grass-roots resistance movement. If you'll use your Z-

cars to distribute leaflets urging passive resistance—"

"That's enough!" Blackwish yelled. "Don't imagine you

can spread your defeatist doctrines here!" He had a

bark like a Pekinese pushed off its favorite pillow. "We

know how to deal with fifth columnists—"

"Ah, General, sir," Maxwell stepped in. "Don't be

hasty, now; after all, Blondel hasn't yet said—"

"Then speak up, sir!"

"Suppose you do hit them—or try to—and fail to knock

them out?" Blondel asked.

"Then, at least, we'll have shown them that we're not

a nation of weaklings—quitters who'll give up their land

without a struggle!"

"A suicide mission won't help matters. Now, if—"

"It would teach them a decent respect for American

patriots!"

"The more they respect us, the harder they'll fight.

Why don't we let them go on thinking we're softies, and

then—"

"For God's sake, Blondel, tell him you'll join up!"

Maxwell hissed.

"You fellows don't seem to get the picture," Blon-

del protested. "The Monitors could squash us like bugs

if they wanted to. For some reason they don't seem to

want to. I'm against doing anything that might change

their minds."

Blackwish reached for his hip pocket, produced an

automatic. "There are direct methods for dealing with

treason," he snarled. "I don't know what your masters

imagined they could accomplish by sending you here,

but—"

"Now hold on a second, General." Blondel managed

to get the words past a sudden constriction in his throat.

Blackwish was holding the gun as steady as a corpse's

smile.

"General," Maxwell got in, "may I respectfully sug-

gest you not shoot him until we've all had time to get a

little better acquainted? We don't actually know he's a

spy—and he is an experienced pilot—just the man we

need for you-know-what."

"Pah!" Blackwish lowered the pistol, pushed the safety

on, thrust it back in his pocket. "At best, the man's an

arrant coward and a defeatist, Maxwell! I can't under-

stand how he was able to hoodwink you into bringing him

here. However, for the present I'll permit you to take him

downstairs and lock him up until I decide what disposi-

tion to make of him."

"Lock him up, sir? But, sir—"

"I have a number of captured German technicians on

my staff who'll have the answers out of him in jig-

time! Afterward—"

"But, General, I brought Blondel here to recruit him,

not scare him to death!"

"Colonel, this headquarters is in a state of full War

Emergency, condition Red Alert! I'll have no unre-

liables free to snoop here! Lock him up. That's an or-

der!"

"But he's likely to get a bad impression—"

"Colonel, I still have my gun, in case you're con-

templating mutiny in the face of the enemy!"

"Yes, sir." Maxwell gave Blondel a disgusted look.

"Come along, Blondel. I'm afraid you've failed to make a

favorable impression."

Blondel followed Maxwell up to a small room on

the third floor under the eaves. It had knotty-pine walls,

heavy rafters slanting down to a small window; a bunk

bed with a patchwork quilt, and a miniature fireplace with

a rag rug in front of it.

"Very homey," he said. "But I thought the General

specified the basement."

"There's nothing down there but the coal bin and a

room full of preserve jars," Maxwell said in a tight

voice.

"And the laboratories."

"That's the coal bin."

"He might get upset and shoot you for insubordina-

tion."

"The general's a great man," Maxwell snapped. "He

was the only man in the country with the vision to foresee

this day. He can't help it if he acts like an idiot at

tunes."

"You think you can talk him out of this raid?"

"Don't get the wrong idea, Blondel," Maxwell said

sharply. "I'm all for the raid! It's a magnificent plan!

Don't let appearances deceive you. SCRAG's new weapon

is all the general said, and more!"

"Look, if you boys want to play war, that's fine; but

why don't you just slip me out the back way, and—"

"Blondel, I brought you here in good faith, thinking

you'd want to get into the fight. Perhaps I was wrong—

but I'm still a loyal member of the SCRAG team. I feel a

certain responsibility for you—but don't fool yourself,

I'd shoot you down myself if I thought there was any-

thing in the general's idea that you're a traitor or spy."

"Just a suggestion," Blondel said cheerfully.

"Get some rest," Maxwell ordered. "Perhaps in the

morning you'll see things more clearly. And don't get any

ideas about leaving. Our security's watertight; take my

word for it."

He went out, and there were noises from the latch as

though large padlocks were being hung on the door.

Then footsteps retreated and left Blondel in silence.

Curled under the quilt, Blondel watched the firelight

throw flickery shadows across the ceiling and listened

to the wind whining around the windows, regretting his

failure to sign up for the general's program—suicide

raids and all, with the option of beating a tactical retreat

at the first opportunity. After all, he reflected sleepily,

there was nothing to keep him from putting on his bird-

suit—funny, he'd forgotten how nice it was to fly—and

just flit away through the open window. But first, he'd

surprise the general by sailing into his room and buzzing

his bed a couple of times. He was out in the hall now,

cruising along effortlessly just under the ceiling. It was a

long, gray hall, with lots of doors with shiny brass knobs.

Blondel tried one after another, but they were all locked

—which was a shame, because there were wonderful things

stored there if he could just get inside. And all the time

it was getting harder and harder to fly, and now he was

flapping for all he was worth, but something warm and soft

seemed to be engulfing him—smothering him—

"Shhh!" a feminine voice was hissing hotly in this ear,

along with an aroma of Spearmint and Nuit d'Amour.

"Do you want to escape from this kook farm, or don't

you?"

CHAPTER SIX

For a long giddy moment Blondel's mental machinery

revved like drag slicks on an oil patch, attempting to

classify conflicting sensory impressions; then reason re-

asserted itself. The warm smooth shape resembling the

nubile body of a naked female pressing against him un-

der the covers was obviously a dream; therefore he was

actually awake and flying, or ...

"Well, say something," the breathy voice urged, while

what seemed to be soft lips nibbled at his ear lobe. "But

keep it quiet; old Blockwits is on patrol in his commando

suit."

"Wha . . . who . . ." Blondel managed.

"I'm Nelda Monroe. I used to be a dedicated mem-

ber of the SCRAG team. That was before I became

aware of the true nature of the struggle between status-

quoism and self-realization."

"Oh," Blondel said.

"I heard you standing up to him. I knew instantly

that you were one of us."

"Who?"

"You, silly."

"I mean—who's us?"

"Who are we?"

"That's right."

"My God, I can tell already you're going to be right

for me." A large, slightly damp leg was thrown over

Blondel's stomach. "You see right to the heart of the

essential paradox, without flinching from the answers."

"I'm afraid I don't know exactly what it is we're talk-

ing about, Miss Monroe," he told her. "When you came

in you said something—"

"Shhh!" A warm hand groped for his, placed it firmly

over a large bare breast. The mouth slid around the side

of his neck and clamped itself over his as solidly as a

toilet plunger. Blondel managed a deep breath through

his nose, and felt her weight come onto him like a Sumi

wrestler. "We'll talk later," she said into his tonsils.

"First I want to get to feel I really know you. . . ."

Blondel gave up the struggle then and went ahead with

the introductions.

Half an hour later Blondel was sitting on the edge of

the bed checking for broken ribs, while Nelda curled

around his hips like an oversized pink Cupid, mewing

contentedly and fingering his knee.

"I'm wild for knees," she confided. "And eyebrows.

And I love a bare man's torso with a wrist watch."

"That's no reason to break up the rest," Blondel point-

ed out. "I may have a use for it."

"God, when a fella's really right for me, I guess I lose

my head a little. By the way, what's your name?"

"Blondel."

"Ummm. You're not Jewish?"

"If I am, mother never told me."

"Too bad. Minority groups arouse me a lot."

"What do you do with them, tear their legs off?"

"My God, you're not one of those hopeless bourgeois

moralists, I hope!" She dropped his knee and sat up hard

enough to boost him off onto the rag rug. She leaned

over the edge and her bosom swung over him like a

pair of impending dooms. "I mean, any meaningful

relationship between male and female has got to en-

compass the physical actuality of their mutual attraction

/repulsion syndrome—the death and rebirth cycle, as

Crmblnsky put it. Not that I believe in a lot of that mys-

tical crap. I mean, hell, a girl has to be free to act natural,

or what good is it?"

"You're so right, Nelda," Blondel agreed. "It's just that

I'm the frail type—"

"Hah! You resent my usurpation of the superior role,

I guess! You have the idea that a portion of the popula-

tion is doomed to forever be on the bottom, with you

lolling at ease on top! I can see now that I made hasty

judgement of you, Blondel!"

"Not at all," he tried to soothe her. "I can see that you

considered the matter in depth—"

"I'm not sure you're the kind of fellow I want to es-

cape with, at all."

"Shhh!" Shivering, Blonde! rose and edged back under

the quilt. Nelda gave ground grudgingly, but her toes were

working their way up his shin. "Listen," Blondel urged,

"I'm sorry about any little misunderstanding, but I'm

sure I'm exactly the type of chap you want to escape

with. What's your plan?"

She tossed her head, and a hank of blonde hair like a

palomino's tail flopped back over a plump shoulder.

"I've been saving it for the right man," she pouted.

"You mean the plan," Blondel deduced.

"What else? And when you came along, I was so

sure. ..."

"Look, Nelda, I assume you want to get out of the

hands of these vigilantes as bad as I do. Let's work

on that first, and work out our interpersonal relation-

ships later."

"You are opposed to the insane invalidity of the tradi-

tional intersexual bias as a basis for our mores-com-

plex? You do recognize that it's at the bottom of the pres-

ent chaotic international contretemps?"

"Oh, certainly, ah, Nelda—"

"And you see the madness of any attempt to cure

everything by violence?" She looked Blondel in the eyes;

her own were immense and china blue, in a round face

with an upturned nose and plump pouty lips between

cheeks like apple turnovers.

"Right. They're going at it backwards—"

She grabbed Blondel's hands and thrust her chest at

him. "God, I knew I was right about you, Blondel!

Blowing them up is no good—for God's sake! We have

to go to them empty-handed and simply explain that

our Gestalts don't mesh! As soon as they understand the

basic validity of our need for rejection of their aid at this

point in our ethical development, they'll leave!"

"Ah . . . sure," Blondel confirmed. "My idea exactly.

But first, we have to get clear of this place. Maxwell

warned me that it's well guarded—"

"Fooie! Maxwell's an utter rectangle. I know how to

leave here any time I want to."

Blondel threw back the covers. "Swell. Let's go."

Nelda pulled them back, hurled herself at him like an

avalanche of foam-rubber bolsters. He fought gamely,

but had to settle for another draw.

Half an hour later he was back on the edge of the bed,

gathering his resources for another try.

"Look, Nelda, this little idyll is a memory I'll treasure

always," he assured her, "but dawn comes early at this

latitude, and we really ought to get moving—that is, if

you really know a way out of this backwoods Buchen-

wald."

"There you go, with your smug masculine assumption

of the unreliability of the female of the species!" Nelda

flounced back under the quilt.

"OK." Blondel rose, began pulling on his clothes. "I'll

try it alone."

"How can you? You don't know the way."

"I'll find one."

"God, you're so determined!" She threw off the covers;

"I love a masculine-type man—"

"Not until we're out of this mess," Blondel said stern-

ly. "Why don't you be a good girl and get into some clothes

now?"

Nelda glanced down at her plump, undraped form,

gave it a casual bump and grind. "The male paradox of

puritanicalism versus sexual voracity—" she started.

"Look, kid, psychoanalyze me later, OK? For now, it's

cold out there, and cute as you are, bare feet in the snow

are impractical."

"Ha! Having slaked your lusts at the fountain of my

compassion you now assume the jackboots of authoritar-

ianism—"

"All right, so I put my dime in your coke machine,"

Blondel said tiredly. "I guess we both got value received.

Can we declare a truce in the battle of the genders and

do a fast fade before Blackwish shows up with his Ger-

man scientists and starts poking splinters under my finger-

nails?"

"He threatened torture?" Nelda gasped. She jumped

up, snatched up a filmy pink and green creation from the

chair, whipped it around her ample form. "My God, why

didn't you say so? I won't be a minute!" She slid past

the door, a pale blimp in the firelight.

Five minutes later, waiting in the darkness at the head

of the narrow flight of steps leading down to the second

floor, Blondel heard the creak of boards. Nelda materi-

alized from the shadows, a spherical composition in a

pink wolfskin parka, white snow-pants, and red alligator

mukluks. She came close, breathed mint-flavored breath

on his face.

"This way—and watch your head." Her mittened hand

caught his, led him toward the end of the gallery. Blon-

del saw a darker rectangle open against the dark panel-

ing. Nelda ducked through, drew him after her. Cold

drafts wormed their way up his pantlegs. There was a

dusty, resinous smell of wood shavings in the air.

"Be careful where you put your feet," Nelda cautioned.

"If you step off the boards you'll drop into Blockwits's

bedroom." She tittered. "You should see it: he's got a

picture of Stonewall Jackson on the wall under crossed

sabers."

"How's the bed?"

"Hard," Nelda said. "Not that I'd know," she added

primly.

Blondel followed as she picked her way daintily through

the pitch blackness. After a tortuous trip of some fifty

feet, she made a small sound of approval and pulled

Blondel forward.

"Boost me up," she directed. Blondel groped over the

parka, a bulk like a long-haired molasses drum. He tried

a grip just south of the estimated equator, bent his knees

and pushed. Nelda giggled.

"Fresh," she said.

"Sorry." He crouched, set his shoulder under a con-

veniently placed bulge, heaved again. Nelda grunted.

"Well, you don't have to be rough!"

"How high do I have to lift you?" he whispered hoarse-

ly.

"About a foot."

Blondel set himself, gripped her around the middle,

leaned back and heaved hard; her weight went on him like

a soft piano; her arms encircled his neck.

"My God, Blondel," she sighed in his ear, "you're so

devastatingly strong! It makes me go all wilty inside—"

"Let go!" Blondel wheezed, staggering. Nelda struck

the boardwalk with a shuddering crash. At once, a startled

voice from the room below barked, "Eh? What's that?"

Feet hit the floor. Other, more distant voices called ques-

tions.

"That did it," Blondel groaned. "We woke the whole

place up."

"Humph," Nelda sniffed. "Since you choose to make

a production of it, I'll just climb through by myself."

There were scrapings and scufflings, a small feminine ex-

clamation or two; Blondel reached, felt the alligator boots

waving before him. Then they were drawn up and Nelda

called softly: "I'm through. Hurry up!"

He found the opening, pulled himself up and was in a

cold, drafty passage, faintly lit by dusty windows under

the eaves, and obstructed by stacked cartons.

"This is Blockwits's Top-Secret storage room," Nelda

said. "There's a stair along here. . . ."

It was a precarious ten-minute descent down almost

vertical ladders nailed in position in a narrow shaft. Blon-

del climbed with set teeth, wincing at the haloos ring-

ing back and forth through the house, waiting for the

inevitable outcry announcing the discovery of his ab-

sence.

"We're down," Nelda hissed. Blondel dropped the last

foot, looked around at the dim bulks of a wood-burning

range, a massive ice chest, a wide table, stacked shelves.

"I think there's some lovely fudge in the fridge," Nelda

said, "if those gluttons haven't eaten it all."

"Maybe we'd better skip the goodies for now," Blondel

suggested.

"Silly, we need supplies for the trip. I won't be a

minute." She tiptoed away, and Blondel went across and

tried the plank door. It opened a crack to let in a frigid

gust of air. He shivered, looking out at the moonlit snow-

field.

"How far is the nearest town?" he whispered.

"Oh, about twenty-six miles. But there's nothing there.

It's just a sort of trading post."

"Where did you plan to head for, once we're clear of

the house?"

"How about Chicago?"

"Fine. How far is it?"

"Umm .. . about two hundred miles."

"That's quite a walk."

"Oh, we won't be walking. We're going to take old

Blockwits's private tank."

"The Z-car?"

"Ummm. Do you prefer Cheddar or Gorgonzola?"

"Either one's fine. Where does he keep it stored?"

"In the woodshed. White or rye?"

"Rye, no caraway seeds. Do you know how to drive

it?"

"No, silly. Don't you?"

"I don't know. I can try."

"Of course. Mustard?"

"Plain, no horse-radish."

"My God, I abhor horse-radish myself! Isn't that amaz-

ing?"

"We were meant to meet," Blondel admitted. "See

if you can find some salami."

"Hebrew National all right?"

"Yeah—and some kosher dills."

"You're sure you're not Jewish?"

"Not actively. And some potato chips—if they're nice

and crisp."

"Oh, goody, pig's knuckles."

"Not the horrible gristly kind," Blondel protested.

"My God, no, Blockwits is too much of a gourmet

for anything like that. You do like onions?"

"Spanish are all right, but not those big white fellows."

"Bermudas? They give me gas, too."

"Speaking of which, I hope there's plenty of fuel in

the car."

"And spring onions are just as bad."

"It sounded like a turbine. They're real gas-eaters.

Where do they keep the spare number two diesel?"

"There's some kind of big tank back of the barn."

"There go the lights on in the yard." Blondel ducked

back. "You and your onions! Now we'll never get to the

car!"

"Certainly we will." Nelda's voice was unperturbed. Her

shadow, cast by the floodlights outside, flitted across

the wall as she tucked the last of the picnic lunch into a

wicker hamper. "Well, shall we?"

"Good God, not again!"

"I mean leave," Nelda said indignantly. "This way."

She went to a low door set in the rear wall behind the

stove, pulled it wide. "A covered passage to the wood-

shed for bringing in logs during a blizzard."

Blondel poked his head in. "Hmmm. Maybe this is go-

ing to work after all." He stepped in, followed the low

earth-floored passage along to a right angle turn, stum-

bling over frozen clods in the dark. Wind whistled through

the gaps in the rough board walls. Through a knothole

he caught a glimpse of parka-clad men stumping across

the snow, tugged by immense white dogs straining at

stout chain leads.

"If they see us, it's good-by pig's knuckles," he mut-

tered.

The passage dipped, and Blondel's feet slipped on

smooth ice. Nelda squeaked and grabbed his arm.

"Don't drop the lunch," he cautioned. The ground rose

again. Fifty feet further, the path ended in a heavy plank

door secured by a thick black iron hasp supporting a

massive padlock.

"Swell," Blondel commented. "Any other ideas?"

"I've got the key." Nelda pressed past him, unlocked

the door, pushed it back.

Inside the woodshed, Blondel squinted through the

gloom at the squatting, streamlined bulk of the Z-car,

parked close under an immense stack of split cordwood.

He worked his way around to the driver's side, cautious-

ly opened the door, slid into the bucket seat, looked over

the maze of controls. A large red button labelled START

caught his eye.

"Come on," he hissed. "We may as well try it before

they find us—"

"Oh, dear," Nelda whispered. "Look—quick!"

Blondel jumped from the car, stumbled across to her

side, peered through the indicated gap between boards.

A bulky figure in a shiny black leather jacket was ap-

proaching from the house. A big nose under black eye-

brows was visible between the fleece-lined wings of the

turned-up collar.

"It's Blackwish," he whispered. "If he ever thinks to

look in here . . ."

"Not him," Nelda said. "He's probably got his minions

out climbing trees. He never does anything the easy way."

"I guess he just needs firewood then," Blondel said.

"Here he comes. ..."

"My God!" Nelda grabbed Blondel's arm and pulled.

"We'll have to go back!"

"Not on your life." Blondel picked up a stout two-

foot billet, took a position beside the door. Nelda made

a sound like a trout deprived of air. "Blondel! You know

how I contemn physical violence . . . !"

"Me too, kid," Blondel agreed. "Let's hope he doesn't

commit any."

The door rattled and swung in. There was a sound of

hoarse breathing. Then: "Mr. Blondel?" a shrill whisper

came.

"Huh?" Blondel grunted, and Nelda yipped.

"Ah, very good." General Blackwish stepped boldly

inside. "I'm glad to see my confidence in you was not

misplaced, my boy."

"Yes, it's one of the great tragedies of our time that

a soldier like myself faces not only the threat of a

shrewd and merciless enemy, but treachery within his

own organization as well." Blackwish nodded sadly.

"What makes you think you can trust me?" Blondel

demanded.

"Maxwell was a good man once," Blackwish said nos-

talgically. "But the rot has touched him: ambition." He

sighed. "Fancies he's the man to replace me."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, General. Maxwell always

speaks very highly of you."

"He does?" Blackwish's eyes caught the light. "Tell

me just what he said, word for word."

"Well, he said that just because you talked like an

idiot—"

"Hah!"

"No, you're getting the wrong idea. He says you're a

great man. He told me so when he locked me in the

attic."

"Attic? Don't you mean the basement?"

"No, he said it was too damp down there. He fixed me

up with a nice little room on the top floor."

"Insubordination!" Blackwish boomed. "But—how did

you get my note?"

"What note?"

"If you didn't get it, how did you know to await me

here?"

"We didn't. Frankly, we were escaping."

"Security leaks!" Blackwish paused to gnaw the end

of his mustache. "A purge is obviously called for—but

never mind that. The point is, you're here." He clapped

a hand on Blondel's shoulder. "The future of the cause

of 140 proof Americanism is riding on your shoulders

tonight, sir! There's no one else I can trust! I'm a virtual

prisoner in my own headquarters! But when you've carried

the word to my loyal lieutenants, the backsliders in my

organization will wish they'd scuttled to the protection

of their borsht-and-vodka-swilling comrades before they

set out to subvert the cause of patriotism!"

"Why don't you carry the word yourself? Frankly, I

had other plans—"

"Unfortunately, I don't, er, drive," the general admit-

ted.

"You don't.. . drive?"

"I never learned." Blackwish straightened to a posi-

tion of attention as he made the confession. "Oh, I ride,

mind you," he added.

"So you can't operate the Z-car?"

"I leave all that to subordinates."

"I was hoping you could show me how," Blondel said

disappointedly. "Oh, well, I suppose I can figure it out."

"I wouldn't try it," the general advised. "It's booby-

trapped. There's a dummy starting button wired to six

kilos of TNT. Better take the copter."

Blondel's mouth opened and closed silently three or

four times.

"But . . ." Blackwish looked mysterious, "I have an

alternate proposal."

"What's that?"

"Carry my message to my loyal lieutenants—and I'll tell

you how to get clear."

"Well..."

"Tell him to drop dead," Nelda suggested.

"Without my help you'll never make it," Blackwish

pointed out.

"All right. I guess I haven't got much choice."

"Your word of honor?"

"Given. Now—"

"Cross your heart?"

"Yeah, yeah—"

"You are a pilot?" Blackwish queried.

Blondel nodded. "I can fly anything that's not bolted

to a concrete foundation," he stated. "What have you

got?"

"A Lotzafun Poopsie, two-passenger job, armored, ra-

dar-negative, turbo-boosters, heat and music, a clean one-

owner job."

"I don't want to buy it; just borrow it."

"Sorry. I used to be in the used car game, back in

quieter times. Guess I just got carried away. It's in the

barn."

"Can we get to it without being seen?"

"I'll take care of everything."

"I thought you said they'd taken you prisoner."

"Nothing so direct. It's a subtler type of treason. They

still pretend to follow orders, but I've seen the sly ex-

change of glances, heard the whispers behind hands."

"Why didn't you just turn me loose openly, then?"

"Hah! And play into their hands?"

"Where will I find these lieutenants of yours?"

"Classified," Blackwish snapped. He reached to an

inner pocket, drew out a folded paper secured by a thick

deposit of sealing wax. "Sealed orders. Don't open them

until you're in Chicago. In case of imminent capture, eat

them."

Blondel crinkled the heavy documents in his fingers.

"That might take a while."

"Eat page four first," the general directed. "Skip page

six. It's a list of a few bottled goods I'd like to have

smuggled in, but don't bother with that—unless you've

got gobs of time. The war effort comes first."

"Let's go," Nelda suggested. "My feet are cold."

"I'll go back to the house and give the all clear,"

Blackwish said. "Wait until you see the front porch light

blink off and on six times in a row, then head for the

barn. It will be unlocked."

"Don't take all night," Nelda pouted. "We'd have been

gone by now, if you hadn't been helping us."

"Quite possibly, my dear." Blackwish smiled grimly.

"Though not perhaps as quietly as you might have wished,

eh, Blondel?"

"My feet are a little cold, too," he muttered.

"Firm up your nerve, man." Blackwish opened the

door. "I, and you, and a few other dedicated individuals

are all that stand between our traditional freedoms and

the tramp of foreign feet in the shrines of Democracy

and the jabber of alien voices in our peaceful American

streets!"

"And the thunder Of enemy guns, mowing down Demo-

crats and Republicans," Blondel added.

"You have a surprising flair for eloquence," Black-

wish approved. "Carry on." He stepped out and closed

the door. At once a voice sounded nearby.

"General! We've been looking for you!"

"What was he doing in the woodshed?" another voice

inquired.

"Merely checking on the Z-car," Blackwish replied in

a bland tone. "You've seen nothing of the quarry, I as-

sume?"

"Sure; we've got 'em cornered in the top of a sugar

pine six hundred yards north-northeast."

"The hell you say," voice number two challenged.

"They're holed up in a draw three hundred and fifteen

yards east by south. I'm sending a team over with smudges

to smoke 'em out right now."

"Fine work, men." Blackwish's voice faded as the men

moved off.

"My God," Nelda said softly. "He is a masculine per-

sonality isn't he? There's something about him that arouses

the elemental female in me."

"Have you ever tried compiling a list of things that have

that effect?" Blondel inquired.

"Jealous?" Nelda's bulk bellied up to Blondel. Her

mittened hand slid over his chest. "You men are such

essentially reactionary creatures. You view females as no

more than property, available at your whim, but other-

wise relegated to a distinctly secondary role in affairs.

. . ." Her lips nibbled at his chin. "My God, you lusty

brute, why don't you say what you're thinking . . . ?"

"I wish I had a big Cuban sandwich with plenty of

onions," Blondel parried, edging sideways. "I missed my

dinner."

"You're sublimating," Nelda accused. "But there's no

need for this ritualistic Judeo-Christian self-denial. We've

got time for a quickie—"

"Swell. I'll have mine on whole-wheat—"

"—before Blockwits gives the signal—"

"—and easy on the bologna—"

"—and we have to go out in the cold snow—"

"—because I can't stand those little round peppers, can

you?"

"—and risk our lives."

"Nonsense. It's perfectly safe!"

"That's my lover-boy!" Nelda lunged, and boards

creaked against Blondel's back.

"I mean out in the snow. . . ."

"Naughty boy! I'd catch my death."

"I didn't mean—"

"This damned zipper's stuck."

"There goes the signal!"

Blondel reached the door three feet in advance, bound-

ed through it and out across the yard with the pink

Teddy-bear form of Nelda at his heels.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The SCRAG copter was a compact turbo-powered af-

fair, hidden, as Blackwish had said, under a screen of

pine boughs. It creaked dolefully as it took Nelda's weight.

Blondel squeezed himself in beside her overflowing bulk,

checked over the controls, started up. The machine lifted

promptly, not without certain evidence of distress from

the groaning rotors, and Blondel set course due south.

Two hours passed in nervous silence. Then Blondel,

squinting ahead, said "Ah," and pointed. In the pre-

dawn gloom, the mighty glow of Chicago provided a

beacon visible from fifty miles distant. No Monitors in-

terfered with their cautious approach across the lake.

Peering out through a light mist, Nelda made a surprised

noise.

"Things look different! I don't see any lights along the

water front; or at least not the usual ones. It looks more

like a lot of little Christmas trees. . . ."

"Probably blacked-out," Blondel grunted.

"And there are big blank patches beyond," she cried.

"Sure—Blackwish told me about the bombing. You'd

better prepare to see some gruesome scenes of death and

destruction, Nelda. I guess when the Monitors hit, they

hit hard."

"It looks as though a big rectangle has just been

squashed flat—and over there—"

"Sure, the horrors of war. All the more reason for us

to do our best to rally some organized opposition. Now

relax for a few minutes, and let me pick a spot to sneak

in."

The Poopsie whiffled low over a gaping break in the

barrier of warehouses and piers, settled in behind a clus-

ter of billboards. Blondel extricated himself from the

pilot's seat with a sigh of relief, stretched cramped legs,

then helped pry Nelda loose. Together they risked a look

from behind their shelter. From somewhere, the cheery

tones of Happy Horinip's voice echoed across the un-

heeding landscape.

"Good Lord," Blondel muttered. "Acres—square miles,

maybe—level as a pool table."

"Look over there!" Nelda pointed. Dim in the pearly

morning gloom, a tall, many-spired tower rose behind a

surviving huddle of gas stations and hot-dog stands.

"Ye Gods!" Blondel hissed. "Instant skyscrapers!"

"They've—they've practically wiped out the city!" Nel-

da gasped. "I'd hardly know the place—my own home

town!"

"I guess Blackwish was right," Blondel said grimly.

"Saturation bombing."

"Still, it's odd the destruction is so sort of orderly,"

Nelda said.

"Sure, they've already bulldozed the wreckage. Prob-

ably didn't even wait to rescue the survivors."

"The monsters!"

"Let's get moving," Blondel urged. "We've got things

to do; every minute counts."

"Just a minute." Nelda pulled a zipper, wriggled out of

her arctic gear to reveal a zebra-striped leotard, a coral

pink peasant blouse, and a chartreuse leather jacket with

copper rivets, a major general's stars, and tassels on the

breast pockets.

"That's, uh, quite an outfit," Blondel commented.

"Kind of conventional, I know," Nelda confessed. "But

I felt I ought to dress inconspicuously, under the cir-

cumstances."

"Good thinking."

They crossed a vacant lot, started along a narrow

street leading up through a gloomy canyon of soot-

blackened masonry which ended abruptly at a clean-

swept expanse of bare earth.

"I wonder where all the dead bodies and rubble are?"

Nelda wondered.

"Blasted clean," Blondel marveled. "Looks like the

Bonneville Salt Flats."

"Funny how it left the buildings right next to it stand-

ing."

"Shaped charges," Blondel explained.

"Listen!" Nelda plucked at his sleeve. "What's that?"

"Sounds like the El is still running."

They followed the sound, two blocks east came upon

a ramshackle construction of rusted iron and grimed

brick, apparently held together by tattered posters an-

nouncing the joys of Fast, Efficient Rail Service. A string

of ancient coaches with the raffish look of drunken sailors

surprised by dawn waited, doors open as invitingly as

fresh-dug graves.

"How about it?" Blondel inquired doubtfully.

"I'm game," Nelda said. "After all, spies have to take

chances."

They selected seats in a car reminiscent of the James

Boys' heyday, looked over the truss and toupe ads. A

thin, seamed man with a narrow crooked head and a

thatch of bristly tan hair under a cloth cap appeared

from the shadows at the far end of the car, sidled closer.

"You folks been married long?" he inquired.

"No," Blondel said shortly.

"We're not married." Nelda sniffed.

"Tsk," said the small man.

"Say, when did the Monitors hit the town?" Blondel

inquired. "Many people killed? What's the Air Force

doing about it?"

"I don't pay no attention to that stuff," the man said

mildly. "You folks wouldn't happen to have a bottle of

wine on you, would you?"

"No. What are these buildings they're putting up?"

"Beats me. You know they closed down every bar in

town? Man can't even drop in for a little refreshing sip

of something."

"Have they taken hostages?"

"Milk. They're giving it away. Federal men, hah! I

tell you, if this kind of creeping socialism goes on—"

"Federal men? You mean we've hit back, taken the

city back from them?" Blondel asked excitedly.

"These G Men in the yella suits," the man explained.

"All over like Salvation Army lassies at a race track.

Man can't even get hold of a good bottle of Port."

"They're not government men," Blondel said. "They're

foreigners."

". . . I mean, you take wine. Good, and good for ye."

The little man swung closer to Blondel, bumped him

lightly. "Well, so long, folks-—"

"Hey," Nelda yipped. "That little creep took some-

thing out of your pocket."

Blondel patted himself, frowned. The little man grinned

sheepishly and produced a folded packet of papers.

"You know, a feller can't work under these here con-

ditions," he said sheepishly, handing them back. "That's

these Federal men for ye, take a man's living right out

from under him."

"You've got a nerve," Nelda stated.

"Takes a good set of nerves, honey," the man said

nodding. "Man spends years learning a trade, and these

boys hit town and put him out of business. . . ."

"Stand over there," Blondel directed. "And keep your

hands in sight."

"Been a crowd, the little lady never would of saw

me," the man said sadly. "But these here new rules—

everybody running here, running there, Federal men all

over the place. You know a man can't even slip into a bar

for a little sip of Muscatel—"

"Where is everybody?" Nelda asked plaintively. "Have

they killed them all?"

The little man spoke behind his hand: "Brother, you

ought to think about making a honest woman out of the

little lady." He clacked his plates, looking Nelda over.

"Purty little piece like that."

"The little lady asked a question," Blondel barked.

"Why, don't be rude," Nelda cooed, turning slightly to

display her chest to better advantage. "I'm sure this nice

man just didn't hear me."

"They're making 'em all go in for some kind of tests,"

the dip confided. "Me, I slipped away. Never did like

them tests. I mean, who is this Kraut, Wassermann, any-

way, he's so smart?"

"Is there any organized resistance?" Blondel persisted.

"Well, I get off here." The pickpocket sidled past Blon-

del. "Nice to of met ye, I'm sure." He leaned closer

to Blondel, who clapped his hands over his pockets. "Just

slip into a church and pray, brother. You'll see the light."

" 'By, now," Nelda trilled.

"It says right in the Bible, take a little wine for thy

stomach's sake, and for thine ofttimes infirmities," the

man announced as he passed on along the car.

"Well, it looks as though he's taking the invasion

calmly," Blondel said disgustedly. "I guess the booze has

rotted his brain."

"Why, I thought he was a sweet little man," Nelda

countered.

They rode on in silence for another quarter hour, dis-

mounted at a station ringed in by still-standing struc-

tures. There were half a dozen Monitors in view.

"No blimps in sight," Blondel noted. "I guess they've

gone back for another load." They proceeded to the

street.

"My God." Nelda prodded his arm. "They're every-

where."

Blondel glumly surveyed the early-morning scene. The

scattering of pedestrians, almost outnumbered by trim,

gold-uniformed Monitors briskly directing the sparse traf-

fic, retrieving kites from power lines, minding baby bug-

gies, nodding and smiling at the passersby.

"They act as though they owned the place," Blondel

muttered. "And these boobs seem to like the idea."

"Diabolically clever," Nelda nodded. "They've already

insinuated themselves into the dependency pattern of

the masses."

In the next block, Blondel paused to watch a pair

of yellow-painted machines at work in a vacant block

ringed with stark structures whose naked brickwork had

been exposed by the removal of their neighbors. The

egg-shaped vehicles, painted a bright yellow, rode easily

a foot above the sea of broken rubble, sucking up a

steady stream of shattered brick as cleanly as a vacuum

cleaner removing spilled Wheaties from a rug, and dis-

gorging stacks of glossy white discs in neat rows.

An elderly man standing by observing the process gave

a shake of the head and spat. "Beats hell how them things

chew bricks and sh—".His eye lit on Nelda. ". . . and,

uh, excrete dinner plates," he finished. "Nice morning,

ma'am." He ducked his head and sidled closer to Blondel.

"You can pick 'em, son," he stated solemnly from the

corner of his mouth. "Give me a well-fleshed gal every

time."

"What's that thing?" Blondel pointed to a long, low

yellow-painted vehicle of strange design approaching along

the street. Through its clear plastic top and sides a row

of passengers were visible, staring vacantly out at the

view as the bus slid past, riding, like the dozers, on an

air cushion.

"Bus," the old man stated. "Yep, I recollect one time

in Kansas City—"

"The Monitors are operating a bus service?"

"Sure. Reckon somebody's got to—"

"What happened to the old ones?"

"Junked 'em, I s'pose. Ever been in Kansas City, "son?

There was this bar—"

"The cars—where are they?" Blondel looked around,

noting for the first time the virtual absence of auto

traffic.

"What cars was them, son?" the old man said absently.

"Like I says, I was having a couple of quick ones, in this

here bar, and—"

"The cars! The Buicks and Ramblers and Chevies!"

"Oh, them. Take a bus. Quicker and cheaper. Anyway,

cars is outlawed. So I was setting on the stool, sipping

a rye and water, and this—"

"Against the law?" Blondel queried.

"Not in Kansas City, son. A wide-open town. Booze,

women, gambling—you name it—"

"How about dirty postcards?" Nelda interposed, and

gave Blondel's arm a jerk. "Tell that old pimp to get

lost."

"You got me wrong, lady!" the oldster protested. "I

was jest—"

"But doesn't anybody care?"

"Not if you got a bankroll, son. Anyhow, there I

was, rolling that smooth stuff around on my tongue, and

this gal eases up beside me. Well, hell—"

"Blondel, you come along this instant, or I'm going

straight to the police!" Nelda announced.

"I mean about the cars!" Blondel amplified.

The oldster looked sharply in both directions. "I don't

see 'em. Where?"

"I am," Nelda said. "Just watch me."

"Nowhere," Blondel said. "That's the point! They talk

about how they're bringing freedom, and the first thing

they do is clamp down on private travel!"

"She tipped the scale at three hundred if it was a

ounce." The old fellow gazed back down the golden years.

"Alice, that was her name. Alice of Dallas."

"Police!" Nelda yelped.

"Where?" Blondel whirled, prepared to sprint for it.

The old man held up a veined hand. "No harm intended,

folks," he quavered. "Anyways, I ain't one of them child-

molesters." He moved off quickly.

"What did you yell for?" Blondel demanded.

"You men," Nelda dismissed the gender with a daintily

lifted lip. "All you think about is just one thing."

"That reminds me," Blondel snapped his fingers. "We

forgot to eat our lunch."

In the next block, Nelda plucked at Blondel's sleeve

and pointed at a surgical-green front crowded between

a shabby Army store and a dubious-looking pool parlor.

"That looks like a quiet little restaurant. Let's go

there."

"It looks like a do-it-yourself morgue," Blondel pro-

tested. "I had in mind one of those little places with

a beam ceiling and a big copperbound beer-barrel back

of the bar, where you can get a superbly grilled steak

and a dandy little red wine for about a dollar and a

quarter."

"Hunger must have driven you mad. Come on."

Wide, featureless doors swung open as they came up,

causing an unshaven passerby to shy violently and quick-

en his pace. Inside, neat white-topped tables, all vacant,

were ranged in orderly rows under ceiling strips which

shed a dazzling glare below. They picked a spot near

the door and looked around for a waiter.

"No wonder the place is deserted," Blondel said. "Rot-

ten service."

"Good morning, sir, madam," a well-modulated voice

said at his elbow. "May I suggest a blend of natural fruit

and vegetable juices, fortified with appropriate minerals

and biomins?"

Blondel jumped and swivelled his head to see a tall

well-muscled youth in a neat yellow cutaway standing

by, a napkin over his left arm, a look of alertly pleasur-

able anticipation on his well-chiseled features.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," Blondel barked. "For

a minute I thought—"

"Why, Blondel, don't be so uncouth." Nelda smiled

warmly at the waiter. "I'm sure the salad will be per-

fectly lovely."

The waiter inclined his head. "Surely, madam." He

plucked a small silvery tube from his breast pocket, held

out a hand to her. "May I?" he murmured.

"Why—you dear man." Nelda put her plump hand in

his. "I never saw any sense in these artificial social dis-

tinct—ow!" She jerked her hand back and sucked at the

base of her thumb. "Blondel!" she said around it. "He

stung me!"

"Madam! A thousand pardons!" The waiter looked dis-

tressed, staring at the tube he had touched to Nelda's

hand. "My metabolic assessor must be out of adjust-

ment." He shook it, frowned at it, then turned an ex-

pression of deep concern on the girl.

"My dear young lady," he said in a grave tone. "It's

fortunate you dropped in when you did. Were you aware

that you suffer from a number of dangerous physiochem-

ical imbalances, any one of which might have resulted

in permanent somatic damage?"

"I am?" Nelda took her thumb out of her mouth.

The waiter turned to Blondel. "The left hand, please,

sir—just in case you're in even worse shape than the

young lady."

"I don't want my fortune told," Blondel said shortly.

"Just give me a menu."

"Oh, there's no need of that, sir—"

"Right. I already know what I want. I'll have a sixteen

ounce top sirloin, rare, cauliflower with a cheese sauce,

a baked potato with sour cream, and a half bottle of a

nice little Beaujolais—a '57 will do."

"For breakfast?" Nelda's expression was respectful.

"What do you mean, breakfast? This is last night's

dinner."

"I regret, sir, that the items you mention aren't recom-

mended for you. Suppose I just make a correct selection

of highly nutritive mineral jellies and vitamin pastes—"

Blondel shook his head. "Don't bother pushing the

specialty of the house. I know what I want. If you're

out of sirloin, make it a fillet—if it's not too expensive."

"Oh, our comestibles are all free of charge, of course,

sir," the waiter assured him. "But I'm afraid your knowl-

edge of nutrition is deficient. You see—"

"Skip the personal cracks, Jack, and fetch me a steak—

any cut!" Blondel barked. "And—" he paused and looked

startled. "Did you say free of charge?"

"Of course, sir. One of the basic responsibilities of

Government is the provision of food, clothing, and shelter

to all citizens."

Blondel made a choking noise.

"Are you ill, sir?" the waiter inquired solicitously.

"This place—it's run by ... by Monitors?"

"Of course, sir. One of our first acts was to remove

all waiters from duty, as public menaces."

"I'm with you so far. What did you do to them, boil

them in oil, or just hang them?"

"Hardly anything so drastic, sir. They were tested and

assigned to duties more in consonance with their natural

aptitudes. Many of them are doing nicely now as agri-

cultural assistants, specializing in porciculture."

"Porky culture?" Nelda repeated.

"Slopping pigs," Blondel explained. "Well, that's under-

standable. But now, as long as I'm here, how about

rustling up my dinner, if you don't mind."

"You'd like the nutritive jelly?"

"Maybe we'd better have the old waiters back," Blondel

said. "At least they gave you meat when you asked for

it, if it was only a thumb in the soup."

"Do you really insist on this unwise selection, sir?

Animal flesh is not the proper ration for you, biochemi-

cally speaking."

"Jelly isn't the proper ration, psychologically speaking.

Better get me the steak before I take a bite out of a

Monitor."

"Hmmm." The Monitor looked thoughtful."The psy-

chological aspect may have been inadequately considered

by our dietetic engineers, which could account for the

lack of response to our announcements of the new free

food facilities." He waved a hand at the empty hall.

"You know, on second thought, I'd better consider my

psyche, too," Nelda spoke up decisively. "Skip the juice

and bring me a nice baked squab—make it two—and

one of those cutey little French omelettes. Just a small

one—about six eggs; and don't bother putting anything

much in it—just some onion, ham, endives, pimento, and

maybe just a sprinkling of mushrooms—the little gray

ones, please. And some coffee. And maybe a few buck-

wheat cakes to keep me occupied while you roll the main

dish."

"Madam! Let me urge you to reconsider—"

"Bring it now!" Blondel ordered sternly. "Or your cus-

tomer load may drop off to nothing again."

"Oh, don't go, sir!" The waiter hurried away.

"We ought to get out of here, fast, while he's not

looking," Blondel said. "But I'm too weak to move."

"My God," Nelda said. "Wasn't that the cutest waiter?

I hope he remembers to bring real maple syrup, instead

of one of those ghastly apricot-flavored synthetics."

Blondel looked around at the sterile-looking dining

room. "If this is the best they can do, the masses will

uprise to throw out the invader before I can get them

organized."

"Humph," Nelda said. "I get the distinct impression

the exploited masses are sinking into an even deeper

apathy than usual. If we don't succeed in convincing

these Monitors they're not wanted, immediately, it may

be too late."

Blondel chewed the inside of his lip. "I promised the

general I'd pass his message on to his Underground Unit

here in Chicago. We'll have to attend to that first."

Blondel drew out the packet of instructions Blackwish

had passed to him, broke the seal, released the elastic band

and folded back the first sheet. Below a line of excited

red print stating the penalties for unauthorized use, an

address caught his eye.

"Where's South Nixon Avenue?"

Nelda shrugged. "Who cares?"

"We have to find it before we can get on to our re-

bellion-fomenting," Blondel pointed out.

"Hah! I didn't promise Blockwits I'd do his duty spying

for him!" Nelda declared. "Just as soon as I've had my

little breakfast I'm going to walk right up to the first

Monitor I see and tell them to leave!"

"Uh—Nelda. Don't you think maybe you should just

write an anonymous letter? For the present, we're OK,

as long as they don't recognize us. But if you come right

out and tell them you don't like them, they may take

you away and operate on that undernourished psyche of

yours."

"Sir, you can rest assured that no citizen will be mo-

lested for expressing his views." The waiter deftly slipped

a laden tray before Nelda.

"Damn it, don't creep around like that!" Blondel

bellowed. "You're tying my nerves into Austrian knots!"

He stuffed the papers hastily back into an inner pocket.

"Sorry, sorry, sir. I shall try to approach more noisily

next time."

"Blondel, you apologize this instant!" Nelda com-

manded.

"Hah! You were the one who was going to tell him

you didn't want his kind around, and that they should all

go back where they came from!"

"Why, the nerve!"

"I hope you'll find the steak savory, sir," the waiter

interjected blandly, as he placed Blondel's tray before

him. Blondel opened his mouth to reply, sniffed, picked

up his knife and fork and sawed off a large bite of beef.

It was crusty black on the outside, pale pink and juicy

at the center. He closed his eyes and chewed. A contented

expression appeared on his face.

"Adequate," he said. "Now go away and don't come

around again until I call you."

"Yes, sir." The Monitor disappeared. Nelda glared at

Blondel. "I'm beginning to see you as you really are,

Blondel! You're as reactionary as old Blockwits, in your

own sneaky way! You actually harbor the medieval idea

that a cute man like that waiter is your inferior merely

because he's engaged in one of the service professions!"

"Um," Blondel said, chewing.

"I wouldn't be surprised to learn that your ostensibly

superior attitude actually screens a deep sense of inade-

quacy, brought on by a suppressed resentment of his

tremendous physical attractiveness!"

"If you're not going to eat those crackers, could I

have them?"

"This same type of sublimation of unacceptable ani-

malistic impulses is at the bottom of a great portion of

the world's ills, I'll bet."

"Hurry up and eat. We have to get away from here

before he realizes who I am."

"What's your hurry? I'm thinking of giving him my

telephone number, just in case he needs someone to

turn to, or something."

"Swell. Only you don't have a phone number. Besides

which, I thought we were a couple of undercover agents."

"Don't imagine that any sympathy one individual may

have aroused by his obvious personal simpatico in any

way influences my total ideological opposition to the

concept of authoritarian government!"

"The thought never entered my head."

"You needn't try to dragoon me into your schemes!

I told you—"

"You told me you were going to give your pitch to

the Monitors. OK, here's your chance. Just tell the waiter

your views. I'll wait outside."

Nelda was shaking her head stubbornly. "I'd be simply

too, too embarrassed, after your boorish behavior."

Blondel speared the last bit of steak, pushed back his

chair. "In that case let's get out of here quick, before he

comes back."

"What about the bill?"

"It's free; you heard him."

"Aren't you even going to leave a tip?"

"What's ten per cent of nothing? Anyway, I didn't think

you approved of such class-conscious gestures."

"Well—it seems terribly abrupt. . . ." She rose, emitted

a small, ladylike burp.

"He's probably out calling in a strong-arm squad," Blon-

del guessed. "Come on ..."

They hurried quietly across to the entry vestibule,

paused to peer out into the street.

"I trust you found everything satisfactory, sir, and mad-

am," an eager-to-please voice sounded in Blondel's ear.

The waiter, in regulation Monitorial yellows, caught the

door as it swung open and gave him an encouraging smile.

"Oh, it was divine," Nelda cooed. "And your attentive-

ness made it ever so much better."

"Somebody needs to hang a bell on you," Blondel

stated hotly. "My pulse has been leaping like a gazelle at

five minute intervals ever since I came into this joint!"

"Pay no attention to my escort," Nelda said sweetly. "He

suffers from a severe case of ingrown ego." She fluttered

her large blue eyes at the Monitor and swept through the

door, bumping both sides of the frame in passing. The

Monitor ducked his head politely at Blondel.

"Sir, since I notice that you and the young lady are new

arrivals here, perhaps I might volunteer my services in

showing you some of the improvements that have been

made in the last few days."

"Uh, no, we—" Blondel started.

"Why, how perfectly ducky!" Nelda trilled. "What a

simply sweet suggestion, isn't it, Blondel?"

He turned to her, muttered: "We want to shake this

creep, remember?"

"He can show us where to find that silly address you're

looking for," she hissed, then gave the Monitor another

burst from her eyelashes. "We'd be too thrilled for

words, ah ... what is your name, you darling thing?"

"Pekkerup, madam, at your service."

"How did you know we're new arrivals?" Blondel in-

quired as the trimly-built young man took up his station

on Nelda's left.

"Your arrival was monitored, of course." Their guide

raised a finger and a small yellow helicopter came whif-

fling down from somewhere above eye level, settled at

the curb. The bubble canopy popped open. There was

no pilot at the controls, Blondel noted.

"Just take seats," Pekkerup invited, "and—"

"We'll walk," Blondel stated firmly, backing away.

"As you wish." The Monitor waved again; the hatch

slammed shut. The empty copter hopped straight up, flit-

ted away over the rooftops.

"You boys have some pretty cute gadgets," Blondel said

nervously.

"There are any number of useful devices we'll intro-

duce in the near future," Pekkerup said, "For the present,

we're limited to these rather clumsy machines which ap-

proximate the aboriginal level of mechanical com-

plexity. We always feel it's important to avoid precipitating

cultural shock, of course."

"Naturally."

"Now, suppose we stroll over to the new Avenue of Pos-

itive Thinking. It's just a square away, and it will give

you a better idea of how the city will appear after the

slum clearance is completed."

Blondel followed glumly as the Monitor led the way,

with Nelda clinging to his arm and chattering gaily. They

passed a block of unwashed display windows stacked

with pawned revolvers, plastic secret agent outfits and ar-

tificial limbs, emerged abruptly at the edge of a broad

expanse of immaculate green lawn on the far side of

which a row of pastel-colored structures of fanciful de-

sign rose in an intricate pattern against the early morning

sky.

"My God, what's happened to State Street?" Nelda

blurted.

"Just a simple matter of removing the existing huts and

installing structures more appropriate to the aesthetic

sensitivities of the people," Pekkerup explained cheer-

fully.

"What do you call it, Miami Beach on the Runway?"

Blondel inquired.

"Actually, the new name of the city is Sapphire," the

Monitor said. "All the new nomenclature will be drawn

from the existing cultural matrix—"

"What was wrong with Chicago?"

"The village, or the word itself?"

"Skip it. What's the idea of a grass street a hundred

yards wide?"

"Oh, it isn't a street in the old sense. That is, it is not

a raceway for individually-controlled personal vehicles.

After the remainder of the plantings are in place, the

people will find it a pleasant, shady walk on which to

stroll about their business and contemplate the pleasing

new facades."

"Swell. The people are going to love that a lot," Blondel

stated.

"We thought so. The buildings themselves will house

the various official agencies necessary for the opening

stages of organization. Then, after the initial education-

al effort is complete, they will be made available to the

public as housing for those who prefer to remain in a

civic environment."

They crossed the wide avenue, empty except for a

lone mongrel pup trotting along nose to pavement in pur-

suit of private canine interests. On the far side, a curb-

stone, embellished with carved foliage, edged a wide

belt of flower beds set like jewelry displayed on green

velvet. The buildings, each different from its neighbor in

design, finish and tint, were placed at generous intervals,

linked by walkways lined with still more blossoms. The

trio paused before a fluted and corniced front of glossy

pale purple, trimmed with pale orchid meanders.

"Why—I do believe those are shops," Nelda said eager-

ly, her eyes fixed on what were obviously display windows

nestled back among the flowering shrubs flanking the

wide ground level entrances.

"Yes, indeed," the Monitor agreed. "They stock arti-

facts appropriate to your present curious economy. I

think you'll be pleased to see what the planet is capable

of producing for your use when properly managed, even

at its present low level of technological development."

Nelda rummaged in a capacious handbag which she had

produced from somewhere. "My God, and me with only a

dollar seventy-nine and an IRT token!"

"Old-fashioned currency will not be required, madam,"

the Monitor assured her. "Any debit incurred will be

entered against your basic quotas."

"You mean—I can open charge accounts?"

"You might call it that—"

"I just hate shopping," Nelda said happily, "but there

are a few little things I need. ..."

Blondel trailed as Nelda forged to the van, shooting

sharp glances at the goods in view. There were bright

displays of cooking utensils, books, fishing tackle, fur-

niture moulded of smooth plastic and upholstered in viv-

id hues. Blondel paused to admire a colorfully enameled

auto chassis of unfamiliar design, featuring individual

power to each of the four wheels, and what appeared to

be retractable flotation gear.

He looked up at a yelp from Nelda. "A dress shop!

My God, I hope they have something cute for the well-

filled-out girl!"

"Yes indeed; provision has been made for deformed

individuals of all types," Pekkerup stated. "Of course, as

soon as the nutrition programs have had time to produce

their results, such measures will be unnecessary,"

"Luckily for you, she's in a trance," Blondel advised

the Monitor as they followed Nelda up the broad steps

and through a door into a cheerfully-lit interior lavishly

decorated with displays of gay-colored clothes.

"My God! What a perfectly darling Hooshkah!" Nelda

grabbed a voluminous garment from a display rack and

held it at arm's length. "With a sweet little reverse-pleated

bodice, and that exquisite Empress Agatha hemline!"

"What is she saying?" The Monitor looked inquiringly

at Blondel.

"Who knows?" He went past her, through an arch, and

into a second sales room, where display cases exhibited

polished and enameled assemblies of metal, variously

equipped with moving parts, cutting edges, instruction la-

bels, and self-contained motive power.

"Wow!" Blondel reached for a shiny unit the size of

a grapefruit,. painted a bright hue, with chrome-plated

levers and boltheads. It was satisfyingly heavy.

"It's a beauty!" he stated. "What is it?"

"A hobbyist's multipurpose shaper," an alert voice said

behind him. Blondel leaped, almost dropped the shaper.

"For the more advanced enthusiast, we have the

Home Shop model." The clerk, a handsomely-built young

fellow in tailored yellow coveralls pointed to a slightly

larger gadget, this one bright red. "And then, of course,

there is the professional model with extra-high capacity,

air bearings, a thousand MT power unit, and self-honing

edges." Blondel admired the bulky bright orange machine,

moved on to the next table as a yelp of pleasure sounded

from Nelda in the shop next door.

"Say, those are dandy-looking jobs. . . ." He gazed

hungrily at a row of banana-sized green-bodied ma-

chines with milled fittings and large shiny push buttons.

"Yes, sir, we feel that our line of fully internally-

grounded auto-tuning grablifiers answers a long-felt

need."

"You bet." Blondel ran his fingers lovingly over the

sleek surface, noting the micrometer scale, the conven-

iently-placed on-and-off button, the tiny red and green

indicator lights. "Uh . . . what does it do?"

"There's nothing like it for tuning an extranial culmi-

nator—and for many other uses, as well." From the dress

shop, another shrill cry of delight rang.

Blondel passed on to the next rack where recogniz-

able hand tools, roller skates, flashlights, and micro-

scopes were displayed among highly-polished marine

clocks and beautifully machined miniature lathes.

"Perhaps you'd like to try one of our personalized

earplug tape players," the clerk suggested. "Weighs

two grams and plays nine hours of your favorite music

without changing settings."

"I'm tone deaf," Blondel resisted, side-stepping the

salesman and heading for a row of iridescent pink, blue,

green, puce, and magenta motorcycles as another cry of

joy sounded from next door.

"You might wish to try one of our seat-pack roto

flyers," the clerk persisted, pointing out a display of bright-

plated six-foot rods attached to padded plastic saddles

and topped by counter-rotating three-foot blades. "A

boon to the footsore, and a source of pleasure to those

who long to soar solitary among the clouds."

Blondel wiped the moisture from his chin, let his daz-

zled eyes roam across the massed hardware as the sales-

clerk patted the sleek prow of a powerboat.

"What about a nice little twelve-foot, two-hun-

dred horsepower, noncapsizing, directionally-stable, leak-

proof—"

"No." Blondel took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes

shut, and turned, blundered back across the store and

into the neighboring emporium, where Nelda stood pick-

ing over an assortment of gossamer superfluities.

"Get hold of yourself," he said shakily. "I know it's a

great temptation, but we can't start trafficking with the

enemy."

"Never mind the sermon." Nelda wrinkled her nose.

"They didn't have anything I liked."

"Suppose I take you along to see the new Universal

Enlightment Center," Pekkerup proposed. "The Individual

Potential testing program is in full swing there now. With-

in the next four days, we expect to have processed the

entire population of Sapphire, and be ready to commence

the retraining phase."

"Thanks a lot," Blondel said, "but I guess we've got

to be scooting along now. . . ."

"Don't be silly." Nelda attached herself to Pekkerup's

arm. "I'm absolutely fascinated by any kind of cultural

stuff."

"We've, er, got a couple of errands to run, remember?"

Blondel muttered to Nelda.

"Later," Nelda said complacently. "Let's go, Pecky."

"I'm sure you'll both be most interested in what we're

doing at the Center," the guide predicted. "Our mission

there is to discover the highest potentialities of each in-

dividual citizen, then to administer precisely that train-

ing which will enable him to realize those potentials,

thus putting an end to the frightful waste of human ca-

pabilities."

"Oh, I don't know," Blondel protested.

"We already have pretty good methods of deciding who

gets what job. I don't know any pilots who are quadruple

amputees, and a blind man doesn't have much chance

of landing a post as a color consultant—unless it's with

the Civil Service, and—"

"Many of your potential nuclear physicists are laboring

as copra cutters for lack of appropriate training," Pek-

kerup interrupted gently. "The responsible positions have

traditionally gone to those persons with the loudest

voices and the most resilient scruples. That situation no

longer obtains."

As they talked, they had followed a winding path

that curved between flowering shrubs to emerge at the

edge of a ten-acre reflecting pool lined with white towers

linked by airy walkways and flanked by broad, tree-

dotted gardens.

"Ooooh." Nelda gripped Pekkerup's arm tighter. "I'd

be petrified if I had to walk across one of those little

bridges!"

"Not at all." The Monitor pointed, casually lifting the

girl from her tiptoes. She yelped and let go. "I can assure

you that with half an hour's reorientation you'll find your-

self relieved of this and other neurotic compulsions."

"I'm not sure I'd like that." Nelda rubbed an elbow

she had cracked against the Monitor's biceps.

"You'll find it most pleasant, Miss Monroe."

Nelda paused in mid-simper. "Gee," she said thought-

fully. "How did you know my name?"

"It's one of the functions of efficient government to be

aware of what its citizens are about." Pekkerup smiled

blandly at her. "Shall we go inside?" He indicated wide

steps leading into the nearest of the palatial white struc-

tures.

Blondel looked around. There were half a dozen or-

dinary citizens of what had formerly been Chicago in

sight, loitering around the edge of the pool or napping

in the shade of the trees. The rest of the visible persons

were Monitors, standing alertly in groups of twos or

threes, or strolling casually along the walks.

"Nelda," he said. "It's time to go. We're keeping this

fellow from his duties."

"Not at all." Pekkerup urged Nelda up the first of the

steps. Blondel had the distinct impression that several

more Monitors had turned casually toward them.

"Let's go." Blondel took her other arm and tugged.

Nelda raised a sturdy foot and placed it against his stom-

ach.

"Get lost," she suggested, and administered a hearty

shove. Blondel staggered back, sat down abruptly. A pair

of Monitors were definitely walking briskly toward them

now. Nelda had turned her back and was tucking up a

stray curl.

"Nelda!" Blondel yelled. "We have to get out of here

before it's too late!"

"Some people just don't know when their advances

have been rejected," she said loudly.

Blondel leaped up, dodged around Pekkerup, and

sprinted for the cover of a clump of weeping willows.

CHAPTER EIGHT

After a brisk chase lasting half an hour, during which

Blondel's well-developed instincts indicated pursuit close

behind, he went to ground in a dim-lit chili and tequila

house peopled by furtive persons of unmistakably non-

Monitorial appearance.

"What's fer you, gringo?" a large man with thin reddish

hair and pale blue eyes demanded when Blondel had

settled himself in a rear booth with a view of the door.

"Una cerveza, muy frio,'' Blondel specified.

"Huh?"

"Pronto, por favor, amigo."

"Jist a minute. I better get one o' these greasers to

translate. I don't savvy that wetback lingo."

"Never mind," Blondel said. "Just get me a beer."

The large man gave Blondel a suspicious look and went

away. Moments later a shadow fell across his shoulder.

He looked up. A tall preternaturally lean man, with a face

like saddle leather and a patch over one eye, silently

took the seat across from him.

"Uh . . . buenos dias," Blondel said cautiously.

The newcomer shot a keen look at him, took a folded

newspaper from his pocket and began to read.

S-v-e-n-s-k-a D-a-g-b-l-a-d-e-t, Blondel spelled out. The

waiter returned with the beer; the stranger ignored him.

He ignored the stranger. Blondel took a swallow. His

mouth seemed drier than ever. He checked his pulse. It

was still racing from the run. He cleared his throat.

"Los Monitoros," he began, "esta usted . . ." The

stranger shot him a piercing glance above the paper.

"Forbannade Amerikanerna," he said in a gravelly

tone. "Prata, prata, som en papegoja!"

"Forlat," Blondel muttered. "Det var fel." He fin-

ished his beer hurriedly and rose. A leather-jacketed

man seated at the bar caught his eye. He hesitated, then

went over, took the stool beside him. The man leaned

casually closer.

"Lefty send you?" he murmured.

"No."

The man pondered that. "Good," he said. "Never did

trust that Lefty."

"Still," Blondel said on impulse, "maybe you could

help me."

"Yeah?" the other said guardedly.

"Where's, ah, 2378 1/2. South Nixon Avenue?"

"That in Chi?"

"Sure."

The dark man finished his drink—a murky, dark green

fluid in an old-fashioned glass—and gave Blondel a quick

look. "Got two bits?" he inquired from the corner of

his mouth.

"Yeah," Blondel whispered back. He fished the coin

from his pants pocket and handed it over. The man looked

at it carefully, rose and started for the door.

"Hey! Where are you going with my quar—" Blondel

caught himself as numerous sets of dark eyes as impassive

as olive pits turned his way. He dropped a bill on the

bar, halted at a growl from the bartender.

"That'll be a buck-fifty for the brew, gringo."

"Kind of high, isn't it?"

"It's imported."

"From where?"

"Jersey City."

"Oh." Blondel added a Kennedy half dollar to the

bill and hurried after his new contact. Outside, he caught

sight of him rounding a corner thirty feet distant. He ran

for it, but the man had disappeared from view.

"Damn!" Blondel muttered, ducking under a string

of nudie magazines festooned across the front of a modest

stall. "It was my 1912 D, too. . . ." He turned back and

collided with a man who gave him a warning look.

"Oh, there you are." Blondel fell silent as the man

hooked a finger at the news vendor.

"Got a map of the city?" he muttered.

"Two bits." The vendor handed across a garishly-

printed document. The man turned, poked it into Blondel's

flaccid hand, and disappeared into the crowd.

"Wow, what an organization," Blondel murmured ad-

miringly.

Half a block further, in a small park apparently de-

voted to wastepaper collection and pigeon culture, Blon-

del took a bench, scanned the brush for observers, then

unfolded the map. Nixon Avenue was clearly marked as

lying in square B-4.

At that moment a large bus of the old type thundered

up, belching fumes. Blondel hurried to it, clambered

aboard as it surged ahead.

"Does this bus go anywhere near B-4?" he asked the

driver, a squatty, morose-looking man in a gray wind-

breaker and a warped billcap.

"Before what, Jack? How's about moving back in the

bus."

"I mean Nixon Avenue," Blondel corrected.

"East or West?"

"South," he said.

"Nope," the driver said.

"Nope what?"

"Nope it don't."

"It doesn't go to square B-4—I mean South Nixon?"

"Goes to East Nacton, that any help?"

"No," he said.

"No, what?"

"No, it isn't."

"Tough."

"What?"

"Skip it, Jack. Go sit down, OK?"

Muttering, Blondel found a seat between a large color-

ed lady who was carrying on a spirited conversation with

an unseen friend, and a lean white-haired little man who

planted a rubber-tipped cane on Blondel's foot and ex-

erted a surprising amount of pressure.

"Ah—would you mind, sir?" Blondel tried to extri-

cate his foot.

"Mind what, buster?" The oldster clacked his plates at

Blondel and indicated a multicolored World War One

Victory ribbon dangling from a curled lapel. "I took a

Jerry 88 millimeter right through the gonads. I guess I

got a few rights."

"Sure, but your cane—"

". . . and I says to that lady," the mutter on Blondel's

right rose in volume, "back home ole Missy never mind

a little totin; and she say ..."

"When the call came, we was the ones went, but nowa-

days that don't mean doodley-squat, the way some people

talk."

". . . so I say, way some peoples ack, seem like they got

some wrong notions bout who runnin' this country . . ."

". . . was down to the VA just Monday a week. Some

young fairy in a purple necktie tried to tell me what the

law meant. Hell, I was peeling spuds at Fort Bliss while

he was still on the tit!"

"My foot—"

The cane lifted momentarily and came down hard. "I

didn't get this here medal reading no lawyers' fine print,

I told him. And . . ."

". . . and she say, she goin' call the policemen, and

I say, I goin' call the NAAC of P, and she say . . ."

"If you'd lift your cane, sir—"

". . . ain't my fault if I didn't happen to come under

fire, was it? I give up a swell job in the A & P to go to war,

and what I say is . . ."

". . . and I say, how did I know the family prefer the

white meat, and she say her husband say he done forgot

a chicken had laigs, been so long since he seen anything

but necks and backs, and I say . . ."

". . . ready to go to war tomorrow, if duty calls! Sure,

I got a little forty per cent disability, but, hell, I always

say a little dose ain't no worse than a bad cold!"

"Pardon me, Colonel, would you mind taking your

cane off my foot?" Blondel inserted the request in the

cross fire.

"Sure, son. I'm getting off here." The old fellow rose,

leaning heavily on the cane. The colored lady gestured,

driving a large elbow in under Blondel's fifth rib. ". .'. and

I say, I guess I has no choice but to resign my position,

and she say, 'But Pulchritude, how I goin' do without

you,' and I say, 'I goin' to miss them babies somethin'

dreadful,' and she fix to cry, and I fix to cry—"

"So long, junior." The vet saluted Blondel. "Your

fly's open."

By the time Blondel had investigated and found the

remark groundless, the bus was again in motion.

"Mister." The dark lady leaned toward Blondel. "That

old gemmun a bad influence; way he talk all the time a

pusson can't hear herself think."

"Funny," Blondel said, "I could hear you clearly."

He peered out the window, seeking to identify a land-

mark.

"You one of them telempaths?" his neighbor inquired

suspiciously.

"No, I'm a more of psychopath. Either that, or everyone

else is."

"Ummm, ummm . . . you in a bad way," his new

friend opined. "That one of the first signs."

"What about you?" Blondel wagged a finger. "Don't

you care that the country's been invaded?"

"It is?"

"Of course! Who do you think knocked down half

the city and ordered private vehicles off the streets and

took over the radio and TV stations and fired the cops

and, and . . ." He waved a hand at a stretch of cleared

ground the bus was passing. "And all the rest of it."

"I figure that them Republicans."

"The Monitors said over the radio they were taking

over! They announced it publicly!"

"I never listens to them commercials; I is learned to just

naturally tune 'em out."

Blondel waved a hand at his fellow passengers, slump-

ed complacently in their seats. "I don't understand. You

all act as though nothing had happened!"

The bus slowed, and the lady rose. "Trouble with you,

you one of them radicals," she stated disapprovingly.

"You needs to get together with Jesus and talk things

over."

Blondel got hastily to his feet. "Say, I wonder if you

could tell me which bus to catch for Nixon Avenue—" He

broke off short and retreated to the back of the bus as

two smiling young Monitors swung aboard the vehicle.

From a new seat between a pair of glowering bearded

teen-agers, he observed them as they exchanged familiar

greetings with the driver, bypassed the fare box and

took seats near the front.

For the next forty minutes Blondel sat pressed back

unobtrusively in his seat, now burying himself in a news-

paper picked up from the seat beside him, now pre-

tending deep interest in the laxative ads above the win-

dows after his concealment was abruptly reclaimed by

its owner. The bus was almost empty by the time the

pair stood, sauntered to the rear door and looked him over

with friendly smiles, preparing to descend. Blondel

braced himself, belatedly remembering Blackwish's in-

structions regarding the documents he had entrusted to

him.

The bus halted; the first Monitor stepped down; the

second nodded, said: "Nice morning, Mr. Blondel," and

followed. Blondel was still staring after them as the

bus pulled away from the curb.

Blondel left the bus at the next stop, a bleak, wind-

swept intersection fronted on one side by the grim

bulks of warehouses, on the other by the desolation of rail-

road yards behind which a single slender tower loomed in

evidence of Monitorial activity in the area. A thin

woman in a flimsy print dress above knobby, nylon-clad

knees gave him a speculative look, detached herself from

the lamp post against which she had been leaning and

gave her brillo-like hair a pat.

"You looking for some action, sweetie?" She had a

voice like a cracked beer stein.

"I'm looking for Nixon Avenue."

"What's there, some o' them cut-rate houses?"

"Just looking up a friend," Blondel reassured her. "You

see, I got on the wrong bus and—"

"Them damned amateurs are wrecking the trade,"

the woman said sadly.

. "Sure, but what I wanted to know was—"

" 'Course, you boys are always on the lookout for

something free—"

"Oh." Blondel offered a dollar bill. The woman eyed

it dubiously.

"May be some dollar stuff over there on Nixon Avenue,

but around here it'll run you five, plus sales tax."

"Just for giving me directions?"

"Directions? You mean you need lessons?"

"I want to know where Nixon Avenue is!"

"Back to that, huh? Well, there ain't nothing they

can teach you over there you can't learn quicker right

here, honey."

"You mean—you're . . . ah . . . ?"

"Let your hair down, sugar. I'm a professional, go

ahead and say it."

"Amazing," Blondel shook his head. "Blackwish must

have a better organization than J. Edgar Hoover."

She backed away. "Now, hold on, brother, let's leave

them boys out of this."

"I guess you're right; discretion pays." Blondel low-

ered his voice. "But the point is, I have a message to de-

liver. They're holding him—"

"Who?"

"You think I should mention his name?"

"Suit yourself. Holding him where?"

"In the house, of course."

"It figures. But why come to me? A independent

ain't got a chance up against the big chains."

"He says they're watching every move he makes,"

"One o' them kind of places, hey?"

"They've got him outnumbered about twenty to one,

of course."

"The poor feller." She clucked in sympathy.

"And he thought maybe you—"

"Not me. One trick at a time, that's what mother

taught her girls."

"But if you got a few men together—you know, rugged

types . . ."

"I don't like the sound o' that, feller," the woman said

severely.

"... you could all sneak into the woodshed and come

up in his bedroom."

"You can have your buck back, mister. That ain't my

kind of party." She turned and retreated hastily around

the corner.

"Everybody in SCRAG is out of his or her mind,"

Blondel complained aloud. He looked around, spotted a

faded street sign dangling under a shattered luminaire.

Half a minute's research with his map indicated that he

was now two and one-quarter inches north northeast of

the 2000 block of South Nixon. He tightened his belt

and set out on foot.

The sun was low above the city's oddly punctuated

skyline when Blondel, after half a dozen narrow escapes

from Monitor patrols, dodged past the last knot of idlers,

took a short-cut through an alley and emerged on the

home stretch. Nixon Avenue, the map indicated, lay

just beyond the next open expanse which reached to a

belt of newly placed trees, incongruous in the aroma of

stockyard wafted by the evening breeze.

For the moment there were no Monitors in view.

Blondel, wincing at the pain in his blistered feet,

skirted the cleared acreage, keeping in the deepening

shadows of the tottering structures which ringed it.

Taking his bearings on an illuminated green minaret

towering in the distance, he entered a gap in the hedge,

ducking under boughs heavy with night-blooming flow-

ers. Shortly thereafter he made the discovery that the

blossoms were accompanied by thorns. After a short

pause, during which he turned up his coat collar and

wrapped his hands in handkerchiefs, he pressed on.

It was a difficult quarter hour in the thorn bushes.

But at the end lights showed, glowing dimly ahead.

Flat on the ground now, Blondel wriggled under a last

set of barbs, poked his head out into the clear. Across a

wide lawn, the dark shapes of lacy buildings loomed,

sparkling with tiny lights that glowed on balconies, tow-

ers, aerial walkways—

"My God, Blondel!" a familiar voice yapped from close

at hand. "Are you still skulking around here?"

Sitting morosely on the far end of the marble bench

occupied by Nelda, now clad in a flowing robe of gossa-

mer white, Blondel massaged his feet.

"I did not come here to beg for a second chance," he

stated firmly. "As a matter of fact, I thought Nixon

Avenue was somewhere around here."

"It was," Nelda said carelessly. "They removed it to

make room for the Aspiration Building."

"Great! Why didn't you tell me that this morning?"

"I had other things on my mind." She gave him a dis-

approving look. "Where have you been all day?"

"Making valuable contacts," he said shortly. "But I still

have the problem of delivering the general's distress call."

"I suggest you take it and sho—"

"Ah, there you are, dear lady," a smooth voice called.

Blondel stared through the gloom at a yellow-clad fig-

ure approaching through the dusk.

"I'm too tired to run any more," Blondel groaned.

"I'll stall him while you make your escape."

"Don't talk like a complete cretin, Blondel. I've

changed my mind about the Monitors—"

"You don't understand, Nelda! You didn't kick me in

the belly today because you wanted to; they took over

your muscles and made you do it! Now's your chance to

make a run for it!"

"Why, Pecky, you dear!" Nelda crooned. "Were you

looking for me?"

"Yes—and Mr. Blondel!" The Monitor's face lighted as

he saw the latter. "Miss Monroe and I are about to

run over to our evening orientation session; won't you

join us, Mr. Blondel?"

"Come on," Nelda urged. "You can't go running

around rabble-rousing forever."

"I thought we agreed about the necessity for certain,

er, measures," Blondel said guardedly.

"Thank heaven I've thrown off conventionalized think-

ing, and perceived the necessity for externalization of

our societal mechanisms!" Nelda declared.

"Is that what they call defecting to the enemy?"

"Please, sir, cease regarding us as enemies . . ."

"You've been hounding me from one hiding place to

another all day," Blondel retorted. "I don't call that evi-

dence of friendly intentions."

"Oh?" Pekkerup seemed to confer briefly with unseen

voices. "Ah, yes," he said. "You were an elusive chap

today. . . ." Footsteps sounded, closing in along the walk.

Blondel sat listlessly, waiting for the inevitable. A Moni-

tor, indistinguishable from Pekkerup in the fading light,

hove into view.

"Here you are, sir." He handed over a bundle of

folded papers. "You dropped these here this morning.

Sorry about the delay in returning them, but you seem

to have a knack for dropping out of sight from tune to

time."

Blondel patted his pockets hastily, then accepted the

offering. "My laundry list," he explained lamely.

"Why not come along with me, sir?" the newcomer

suggested. "I'm about to conduct a little question and

answer period for a small group of citizens who've ex-

pressed special interest in the new programs."

"Will I get to sit down?"

"Of course—and refreshments will be served."

"It's a deal—but I'm not making any promises."

"Excellent, sir." The Monitor led Blondel, hobbling

painfully, along a walk past a lantern-hung terrace, up

broad steps and into a cosy amphitheater where half a

dozen men in shabby garments sat huddled in a tight

cluster in the far corner.

"Let's all gather round the table here," the Monitor

called gaily, indicating a polished board surrounded by

soft leather chairs. Blondel sank into one with a groan.

A thin fellow in a worn turtle-neck slid into place on his

right. A stolid thug, with hands like catcher's mitts pro-

jecting from an undersized pin stripe, creaked the chair

on the left.

"Where's the eats?" the latter growled.

"Yes," Blondel echoed. "Where are the eats?"

The heavyweight cocked a scarred eyebrow at him.

"Wisenheimer?" he inquired.

"Knackwurst," Blondel retorted.

His interrogator subsided, baffled. The Monitor was

looking over his charges brightly.

"Gentlemen, the Tersh Jetterax recognizes that the lit-

tle problem of communication of ideas lies at the bot-

tom of the somewhat, ah, cool reception we Monitors

have received among you. It is our hope, in little, in-

formal, voluntary gatherings like this one, to put your

minds at ease as to the ethical basis for the many im-

provements which are now being made in your lives.

Who would like to lead off the discussion?"

"What about dames?" a grizzled man with one ear

rumbled.

"Alas, no ladies chose to join us this evening."

"Don't rib me, bo. You said if I come, there'd be some

kicks."

"Dames is poison," another veteran of life on a hostile

planet offered. "No dames, I say. Cards, dice, ponies,

plenty booze—that's fer me."

"Likker'll rot yer insides," a small, peppery derelict

predicted. "You boys need to get on some good stuff."

He winked a fluttery wink which triggered a tic in his left

cheek which occupied his attention for the remainder of

the session.

"Where's the eats?" the big man demanded loudly.

"Yes, where are the eats?" Blondel echoed.

"Gentlemen, the food will be served presently," the

Monitor soothed. "First, let us deal with the problem

uppermost in all our minds." He looked at a round-

shouldered youth with pale stubble and a slack jaw who

had so far not spoken. "You, sir: What troubles you,

with reference to our presence among you?"

The youth stirred. His mouth closed and opened.

"Huh?" he managed.

"Can you state what, precisely, interposes itself be-

tween you and a rational acceptance of your good for-

tune?"

"I got like a low IQ," the lad stated positively. He

bobbed his head and grinned briefly, exposing wide-

spaced teeth and a pink cud of bubble gum.

"Be of good cheer! As soon as your testing is com-

plete you'll be trained for work well within your capa-

bilities—"

"Nope," the youth stated flatly.

"What he needs," the peppery man declared, "is a stiff

jolt right in the carotid. Fixes 'em every time."

"Where's the eats?"

"You give me the dames, you keep the booze."

"Surely you prefer productive work at a useful occu-

pation to a drone's existence?" the Monitor inquired pa-

tiently.

"Nope."

"Doesn't the prospect of a spacious new apartment,

comfortable and attractive clothing, improved health,

greater intellectual vigor, and a meaningful role in the

world's affairs attract you?"

"Nope."

"Hey! He's going to try to make us take some kind

of bath," the little fellow on Blondel's right predicted.

"And prob'ly preaching afterwards."

"I don't need no pansy in yeller britches telling me

when to bathe off," the hungry one announced. "Where's

the eats?"

"Surely you're excited by the prospect of participation

in the great things happening about you today!" The

Monitor radiated enthusiasm. "Picture it! A continent-

wide program of landscape improvement which will con-

vert the wilderness into parks and gardens! The deserts

will be irrigated, new lands opened up for settlement,

and new bright houses for all! In place of the clusters of

dreary, unsightly constructions in which you've been

crowded like beasts, radiant towers will rise among the

lawns! The natural resources will be identified and put to

use, power will be supplied free, from nuclear, tidal, and

solar sources! All drudgery will be automated, and under-

ground factories will produce endless streams of the

goods required to make life more joyous! New highway

systems, twenty lanes wide, one way, will link all major

centers, and on them, improved, fail-proof vehicles will

cruise at incredible speeds in perfect safety! A subsur-

face vacuum tube system will speed heavy cargo from

coast to coast! Every citizen will thrill to new-found abili-

ties at sports, sciences, the arts! Official programs of

achievement in every field of human activity will un-

cover and develop every hidden talent; and the vast,

untapped reservoir of genius latent in the undiscovered

masses will be opened, freed to produce new sym-

phonies, new sculptures, new formulae, new recipes for

the delight of all!"

"If you guys don't want the dames," the girl-fancier

proposed, "I'll take 'em."

"Where's the eats?"

"Heck, a little horse don't hurt a man none—and

that pot, why that's downright beneficial!"

"Yep, it's the old soap-and-salvation pitch," the anti-

ablution man rose. "I knew it soon's I seen them brand-

new store clothes he was wearing." He departed, mut-

tering.

"Gentlemen, are your imaginations not fired by the

prospect?" the Monitor called over the rising tide of

comment.

"Nope," the dull youth stated.

"But—what does arouse your enthusiasm?" the Moni-

tor appealed. "Surely there are ideals that move you

more than the mere satisfaction of bodily hungers!"

"I like cars," the slack-jawed lad stated.

"Now you take snow, cut fifty to one . . ."

"Redheads—and blondes, and maybe a few black-

headed ones, too—"

"But I can't get no driver's license."

"Boy, I can almost feel the old ten cc slipping in

now," the addict said dreamily.

"I knew one dame was white-headed, premature. But

don't kid yourself, Bub, her axles was greased . . ."

"So I got a couple chasses without no wheels set up

in the side yard."

"Sirs! The discussion is wandering far afield! I'm here

to put your minds at ease—"

"If there ain't no eats, I'm dusting." The large man

got to his feet.

"Let's skip the chin-music and get on with the cure."

The narcotics fan rubbed horny hands together. "Let

me tell you, I tapered off in some o' the best sani-

tariums in the country. My niece—"

"What I say is, baths is OK, if they got dames to

scrub yer back, like in Japan. I seen this here movie—"

"Gentlemen—"

"Pa likes refrigerators. He's got twelve of 'em out

back."

"Ain't no action here, I can see that," the sport de-

clared. "Maybe if I hustle I can get me a bolita ticket

before Manny closes down fer the evening." He exited

hurriedly.

"How about it, you going to let me down easy?" the

junky called, still fighting the tic. "If you're reneging,

speak up. I'm overdue for my fix."

"You know, I ain't seen a dame since I hit this joint,"

the one-eared man said in a tone of dawning compre-

hension. "I think this is one of them homo joints!" He

got to his feet and stamped out of the hall. The Monitor

darted back and forth in agitation.

"Please, gentlemen, don't go—"

"Never mind them," Blondel advised him. "I wanted

to ask you—"

"Come back!" the Monitor called as the twitching

man groped his way doorward.

"Now maybe we can talk," Blondel suggested. "You

said—"

"Only two of you left, out of seven." The Monitor

shook his head sadly. "I had such high hopes—"

"I guess I'll go sit in one of my car bodies," the dull

youth announced, rising abruptly.

"Sir—don't leave now, I beg of you! I can arrange

for your potentiality testing, and synaptic acceleration

therapy, at once! I guarantee you an increase in effective

IQ of at least—"

The boy had blundered past him and was halfway to

the steps. The Monitor hurried after him, pleading.

"Don't waste your time," Blondel called after him.

"Tell me more about this subterranean factory idea,

and—"

Halfway down the steps the Monitor overtook his

quarry, jumped in front of him, and grasped his arm

with both hands. "Sir, think what it could mean to

you—"

The flimsy sleeve ripped free as the youth tugged

against the restraint. The Monitor stumbled back, missed

his footing, and fell. Blondel heard his head strike pave-

ment with a sound like a dropped cantaloupe. The slen-

der, gold-clad body curled on its side, making scratchy

noises. Then it stiffened and was still.

"Oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-boy!" The youth circled the body.

"Pa told me next time it was the state farm fer sure."

He fled at a shambling run.

Blondel stopped, put a hand to the fallen Monitor's

chest. The pulse seemed strong, but strangely rapid.

And there was something odd about the feel of the

chest. .. .

He grabbed the casualty under the arms, laid him out

face down in the shadow of a flowering shrub. The uni-

form, he found, was not secured by buttons. Instead, a

pull at just the right angle caused it to open down the

back. He turned the limp body over, and tugged, peel-

ing the jacket off over the arms. It was stiff and bundle-

some. It came clear suddenly and Blondel was staring

blankly down at what was left lying on the walk.

The face was still the same, and the neck; but just

below the collar line the texture changed. The thorax

was lumpy, pigeon-chested, a shiny dark brown in color.

And the arms had come off with the blouse. All that

was left were a pair of limp, soft-looking grayish flip-

pers, like baby elephants trunks.

CHAPTER NINE

Blondel dropped the padded coat. It hit with a thump

like wet laundry. For a second or two it seemed to him

that his stomach was attempting to squeeze itself into a

ball small enough to toss up with one heave. His next

impulse was to run, but a form of shock-paralysis made

his legs quiver like bass-viol strings. He took a shaky

step back, and stumbled over the Monitor's gold-booted

foot. At the jar, the Monitor's face tilted and fell off.

Blondel saw a hollow shell like a Halloween mask dan-

gling by a cluster of wires, exposing a head like a hair-

less seal, except that the eyes were below the mouth.

And, suddenly, it was all right. He was looking, not

at a mutilated human but at an animal of a strange

species. He let out a long breath, feeling his face mus-

cles relax from the unconscious grimace in which they

had been set.

He stood over the alien, listening. The campus-like

park around him was still and peaceful. No other Moni-

tors were in view along the curving walks. He licked his

dry lips, pulled the unconscious alien farther back into

the shadows, and set to work.

It was a difficult chore, stripping the remainder of the

uniform from the fallen Monitor, because of the maze of

wires, springs, and ducts that almost filled the pseudo-

legs. The main power pack was built into the lower tor-

so, with the organic body of the alien squatting on its

dish-like upper surface. There was a snug little harness

of woven metal around the thing, with leads running off

in all directions, Unking up what appeared to be servo-

units built inside the knees and ankles. There were also

a pair of electronic-looking devices, nestled where the

armpits should have been, with connections to the mask.

Some sort of sense boosters, Blondel decided. The

mask itself was an intricate-looking piece of equipment,

thick and heavy. The back was a porous gray material

laced with color-coded filaments and bead-sized fittings,

moulded to fit over the seal-head, but from the front it

looked real enough to breathe. Every pore and eyelash

was perfect; someone, Blondel reflected, had done a

good job of costume design.

The uniform seemed to be a perfectly ordinary suit

of clothes, once the muscle-shaped foam-rubber pads had

been stripped from it. The hands had metal rod and

spring cores, with padding, and outer gloves the color

and texture of human skin lined on the inside with a

fabric of metallic weave. They felt strange when he

handled them, as though they were in business for them-

selves. Obeying the kind of impulse that makes a boy

thrust a finger into an electric socket, Blondel tried one

on. It snugged to his hand like a coat of paint. He

flexed his fingers; the glove gave without strain. It was a

perfect counterfeit.

He took the glove off and checked the remainder of

the outfit. There were a number of apparati worked

into the pads whose function was obscure. But a grain-

of-rice hearing aid that tucked into his ear brought in

the sound of moths flying fifty yards away; and a little

device, fitted into a shirt button, kicked his hands away

from the suit like an invisible rubber wall until he found

the control in the heel of the left boot.

"A repellor field," Blondel muttered aloud. "No won-

der nobody seems to be able to clobber a Monitor. And

this is the outfit Blackwish wants to drop bombs on."

He pocketed his finds and emerged from the conceal-

ment of the bushes. All around, the fairy lights twin-

kled across the peaceful gardens. He turned up his coat

collar in a vague instinct for anonymity and set off at a

brisk walk toward the nearest clump of trees.

From a semiconcealed position behind a Dempster-

dumpster unit canted at the edge of a weed-grown va-

cant lot Blondel discerned the sagging contours of an

independent cab parked at the curb, garish in purple

and pink, blazoned with the mystic heraldry of fare

formulae.

He took out Blackwish's bundled instructions, leafed

past the countersigns and code data, found the alter-

nate address for use in the event the Nixon Avenue

headquarters had fallen to the foe: 72813 W. G. Hard-

ing Way, Room 213.

He checked the landscape again for hostile yellow fig-

ures, then nipped across through the tin cans and dead

soldiers, leaned down beside the cab driver's window.

"You know where W. G. Harding Way is?" he hissed.

The cabby sprang straight up, emitted a hoarse yell,

and dived for the floor.

"Come up," Blondel urged. "This is no time to go to

pieces. I need a cool driver who can get me across the

city with important information."

The hackie showed Blondel a length of one-inch iron

pipe. "The last wisey braced me from behind got twelve

stitches," he stated truculently. "What are you, some

kind of flatfoot?"

"Not exactly." Blondel opened the rear door and got

in. "Number 72813," he directed. "I'll lie on the floor.

Don't waste any time."

The driver reared up and looked over the back of

the seat.

"If you're tired, I'll take you to a hotel, Jack," he of-

fered.

"I told you, I've got hot news to deliver! Let's get

going!"

The driver shook his head sadly. "The town's gone

nuts," he stated. "Ever since these Israelis taken over."

"What Israelis?"

"You know—the guys with the yellow suits."

"Oh, those Israelis—"

"Don't get me wrong," the cabby cautioned. "I'm Joosh

myself. And you know the old saying—it takes one to

know one."

"Security considerations prevent me from saying more,"

Blondel said. "But these Monitors are a lot more alien

than—"

"I mean, in a way, you can't blame 'em. After two

thousand years of being shoved around and with guys

like Einstein on the team, it figures after a while they

hadda make a move—you know what I mean?"

"Right," Blondel agreed. "If you see any Israelis, just

wave and keep going. It wouldn't be convenient for me

to be delayed right now."

"Hey!" The cabby eyed him sharply. "You ain't one

of them anti-Semites?"

"Certainly not! It's just that this is private business—"

"You know, it's a funny thing, but some of my best

friends are anti-Semitic," the cabby reflected. "Take

O'Houlihan, my relief. For a lousy Mick, he ain't a bad

guy—know what I mean?"

"Uh-huh. Look let's get moving—"

"Now, you take the Eyetalians. Catholics, just like the

Irish, but with them we get along good."

"You do know where W. G. Harding Way is?"

"Now the Ayrabs—did you know the Ayrabs are

Semites? But with them we don't get along good at all."

"There's no accounting for taste," Blondel pointed out.

"I know what you mean—you know what I mean?"

"Absolutely. Could we get started now?"

The cabby frowned down at him. "You with the CIA?"

"In a sense."

"Then you can count on me, pal. Like I says, I don't

exactly blame them Israelis for getting a little fed up,

but after all, this is the USA, right?"

"Right."

"And we don't need any bunch of foreigners telling

us how to run the place, right?"

"Right. And if you'd—"

"Even if they are good Jewish boys."

"Exactly, so—"

"So let's get going, pal."

The cabby resumed normal driving position, clacked

the flag down and pulled out into the empty street. The

sound of the engine echoed off abandoned-looking store-

fronts.

"Them Israelis are making plenty changes," the cabby

announced. "You know what they done? They give me

another thirty-six hours in the hack game; then—phhht!"

"Don't keep slowing down," Blondel called.

"You want me to have a accident?" the driver in-

quired.

"Maybe later," Blondel muttered. "Can't you get a little

more speed out of this hulk?"

"Nix, kid. I got a license to protect. By the way, what's

this hot info you got?"

"Classified," Blondel said shortly.

"Oh. OK. I was in the Army, I know all about that

kind of stuff."

"Good."

"I can keep my lip buttoned."

"Swell, so—"

"You can trust me."

"Great. Now if—"

"Like, if you was to tell me—"

"Not a chance."

"OK, OK, I ain't nosey! But like, if something was to

happen to you—"

"No."

"Hah! Who needs it? The stuff I could tell you, pal!"

"Just drive," Blondel directed.

"For example, you know the mark-up on color tele-

vision sets? I got a cousin—"

"I hate television," Blondel interrupted.

Several blocks passed in silence. Blondel, crouched

awkwardly on the floor, raised his head and stole a

glimpse from the window as the cab sped past a broad

swathe of leveled ground where tall machines worked

smoothly, erecting fragile-looking columns.

"Look at that," the cabby invited, staring at him in the

rear-view mirror. "New synagogs going up all over town.

Who says the Israelis got no engineering genius?"

"Not me," Blondel stated firmly. "Faster, please."

"Look, the way I see it, us American citizens got to

stick together, right?"

"Right."

"So if you want to tell me—"

"Forget it."

The cabby sighed. "I got to hand it to you, Jack,

you don't give away much. Here you are." He braked

to a halt. Blondel peered out at the grim facades of

empty stores under lightless walk-ups. One dim-lit en-

trance had the number 72813 lettered over it in peeling

gilt. He stepped out.

"How much?"

"On the house," the hackie said. "My pleasure, pal.

If I wasn't the father of nine, I'd side your play. Anyways,

God Bless America." The hackie gunned away from the

curb.

Blondel eyed the silent building front, looked both ways

along the street. There was no one in sight. The cool

evening air smelled of creosote and diesel fuel. He pushed

through an imitation bronze door into a small vestibule

containing a half-full rubbish can and a sway-backed bi-

cycle. Narrow stairs upholstered in perished black rubber

led upward. At the first landing, a massive gray door

swung open with a lugubrious groan. In the hall, a dim

light at the far end showed a rank of closed and silent

doors. A faint light behind one threw a weak fan of

yellow on the floor.

Blondel cocked his head, listening. There was no sound.

He went along the corridor softly, paused at the lighted

door. It bore the numerals 213 above letters that spelled

out: P. Gimlet. Importers. He put an ear to the door,

heard a sharp bonk! followed by a clink of glass and a

gurgling sound.

Gently, Blondel tried the knob. Locked. He hesitated,

then tapped lightly.

There was an interrogatory grunt from beyond the door,

then footsteps. The latch rattled and the door swung

wide. The angry face of General Blackwish stared out

at him. "So there you are!" he barked.

"General! How did you get here? I thought—"

Maxwell's alert features appeared over the general's

shoulder.

"Colonel," Blackwish snapped. "Arrest this man and

prepare for a summary court martial!"

Roped to a wooden arm chair with a dozen turns of

sash cord, Blondel looked around at the granite features

of Blackwish, Maxwell, and two anonymous heavies with

impact-thickened ears and fine scars on the cheekbones.

"I don't get it," he stated. "I spent the whole day scoot-

ing up and down back alleys and creeping through the

underbrush looking for your loyal lieutenants so I could

deliver your message, and when I find the place—you're

there ahead of me, yelling treason!"

"Never underestimate a Blackwish," the general in-

toned.

"I thought Maxwell was plotting to kick you out and

take over," Blondel reminded him.

"Don't attempt to sow dissension in the ranks." The

general rocked back on his heels, showing his teeth.

"We're a small band, perhaps, but our hearts are true."

"You said yourself—"

"Quiet, Blondel," Maxwell snapped. "You're only mak-

ing it worse for yourself. Stealing an official copter was

bad enough—"

"He gave it to me!"

"What did you do with the young woman you forced

to accompany you?" Blackwish demanded. "Murder her

and dump the violated body from the hijacked machine?"

"Nuts," Blondel said. "You know perfec—" The room

erupted in a striking display of roman candles. Blondel

admired them dizzily until they faded to reveal one of

the muscle-men standing before him, smiling happily

and rubbing his knuckles.

". . . tly well she went voluntarily," he finished groggily.

"It's apparent to me that the man's an arrant treacher,"

Blackwish said in a tone of finality. "Entrusted with the

sacred obligation to carry forward the good fight, he de-

fected to the borsht-and-vodka-swilling enemy—"

"I didn't," Blondel said.

"Yes, you did," Blackwish contradicted swiftly.

"I did not."

"You did, too."

"Did not!"

"You did, you did!"

"I didn't, I didn't."

"You did, you—"

"General," Maxwell interposed. "I think the man's pres-

ence here, after you personally locked him in the cellar,

is prima jade evidence of his guilt. I think we'd better

get on with the distasteful business of carrying out sen-

tence—"

"Distasteful! Since when has the execution of trai-

tors to the flag of this nation been distasteful?"

"Well, as you know, sir, I'd love to do it, but I've got

this blister on my trigger finger from addressing all

those invitations to the Victory Ball."

"That may have been a trifle premature, Colonel.

We're not out of the woods yet."

"But you specifically ordered me to—"

"Don't quibble. Now about Blondel. Are we in agree-

ment, then? I certainly don't want to seem arbitrary

where a man's life is at stake."

"You're out of your minds!" Blondel protested. "All I

did was—"

"As for disposal of the body," Blackwish said thought-

fully, "what would you think of drawing and quartering,

as a warning to other would-be traitors?"

"General!" Blondel shouted. "I did my best to deliver

your ridiculous message—"

"Too time consuming," Maxwell judged. "I'd recom-

mend a simple dismemberment, with the head impaled on

a pole above the city gates."

"The city doesn't have any gates," Blondel interrupted.

"And—"

"Fine idea, Colonel," Blackwish nodded. "I can see

you're getting your old stuff back."

"Listen," Blondel appealed. "I've got some important

information about the Monitors. They're—"

"Well, then, let's get it over with," Maxwell said. "I

think perhaps Lance-Corporal Clinch here is the best man

for the actual coup de grace. Kenny, is your piece in

order?" Maxwell looked inquiringly at one of the thugs.

"My what?" The man scowled.

"He means your gun, Kenny," Blackwish clarified.

"You didn't give me no bullets fer it," Kenny replied

sullenly. "I ast you fer 'em plenty times, but no, you

wouldn't—"

"Give Kenny some bullets, Colonel!" Blackwish

snapped.

Maxwell checked his coat pockets, blew lint from the

cartridges he found there, handed them across.

"You're not really going through with this?" Blondel

inquired incredulously.

"My boy, you'll find, as you journey on through life,

that the supreme penalty can be as easily administered

by a small cadre of devoted patriots as by a giant to-

talitarian Empire. Kenny, load your piece."

"My what?"

"He means your gun," Maxwell said.

"Listen to me!" Blondel tugged at the ropes. "I made

a discovery this evening, about the Monitors! They're

not human! I don't know what they are, but under those

yellow uniforms—"

"Treated you as scurvily as you deserve, did they?"

Blackwish curled his lip. "Sic semper tyrannis!"

"No—they treated me fine. As a matter of fact, I was

right on the verge of starting to believe what they said.

And then—"

"Note how coolly the swine confesses his guilt." Black-

wish wagged his head "Boasts of it, even."

"He's a cool devil in the face of the firing squad,"

Maxwell said grimly. "A pity he couldn't have been true

blue."

"Look, I'm as true blue as the next guy! I'm trying to

tell you, the Monitors are aliens! That's why—"

"Don't think to postpone your fate by a display of red

herrings," Blackwish cautioned. "Of course the borsht-

and-vodka-swilling invaders are aliens!"

"I mean really aliens! They have these little tentacles,

and their heads are like upside-down seals, and—"

"Silence!" Blackwish shrilled. "The strain seems to have

snapped your wits! The least you could do, as a former

American, is to face your end like a man!"

"Of course," Maxwell put in over the exchange, "there

is the alternative. . . ."

"I tell you, they're not human!" Blondel persisted.

"They're intelligent aliens!"

"I'm not interested in the intellectual capacities of

immigrants!" Blackwish countered. "Democracy will pre-

vail no matter what weight of devilish ingenuity her

enemies seek to employ against the defenders of the Re-

public!"

"About the alternative," Maxwell interjected.

"They're not just foreigners," Blondel insisted at the

top of his voice. "They're inhuman! They came here from

Mars—"

"A plea of insanity at this point will avail you nothing,"

Blackwish announced. "Kenny, do your duty!"

"The alternative." Maxwell tugged at the general's arm.

"You're forgetting about the alternative!"

"There is no alternative to duty," Blackwish keened.

"Why don't you listen to me?" Blondel yelled.

"These bullets won't go in my piece," Kenny an-

nounced.

"Your what?" Blackwish roared.

"He means his gun," Blondel elucidated. "But if you

shoot me—"

"We wanted to tell Blondel about the alternative."

Maxwell was jumping up and down in front of the general.

"The alternative, sir!"

"Americanism or nothing! That's the alternative!"

"I mean the alternative for Blondel!—instead of being

shot!"

"What's that? You mean hanging?"

"General, I'm afraid in your zeal you've forgotten

what we, er, I mean, there is another course open to

Blondel, in case he decides to come to his senses!"

"What's that?" Blackwish looked suspicious.

"If he'll agree to fly the copter on the you-know-what

mission, we won't have to carry out the sentence. Re-

member?" Maxwell said rapidly.

"Fly the copter?"

"You remember, General: When I discovered he was

gone, and reminded you that we needed him to fly a

certain very important mission, you agreed that we'd,

ah, attempt to persuade him . . ."

"Hmmm ... I seem to recall something of the sort.

Escaped, didn't he? After I had personally locked him in

the research lab?"

"Right, sir! And then you shrewdly guessed he might

come here! Our ambush was successful, and now it's

time to tell him about the alternative!"

"Very well. Tell him."

"Blondel," Maxwell faced him sternly, "there is one

way in which you can avoid a traitor's death."

"If you're still thinking about your idiotic scheme to

bomb their headquarters, forget it!" Blondel yelled. "If

you'd just listen to what I'm trying to tell you—"

"OK if I just pound his brains out?" Lance-Corporal

Clinch asked. "I can't get none of these here bullets in

my gun."

"Piece," . Blackwish corrected. "No, not just yet,

Kenny."

"Nuts," Kenny said. "I never have no fun."

"We have at last," Maxwell said solemnly, "after

seventy-two hours of round-the-clock espionage activity

by a number of intrepid SCRAG agents, discovered the

location of the enemy headquarters."

"Yeah, I seen that on the telly," Kenny nodded. "Boy-

oh-boy, some layout, huh, Blackwish?"

"General Blackwish to you, Lance Corporal!"

"As I said," Maxwell continued hastily, "we have pin-

pointed the target—"

"How come he gets to call me by my first name, and

I got to call him General?" Kenny inquired loudly. "What

kind of chicken—"

"That's enough, Kenny," Maxwell interrupted. "Having

determined the co-ordinates of the Monitor HQ, it re-

mains now for us to eliminate it. For this task we require

a volunteer pilot."

"Where it's at," Kenny announced, "is out in the ocean,

like. You ever heard of a place named Tortuga?"

"Kenny, why don't you go to the toilet while you have

a chance?" Maxwell suggested.

"Gee, yeah." Kenny went away.

"Now, then." Maxwell rubbed his hands together

briskly. "If you'd feel impelled to demonstrate your pa-

triotism by offering your services for this glorious mission,

I feel sure that the matter of your execution can be

successfully deferred."

"At least until he gets back," Blackwish amended.

"Go rub salt in your nose," Blondel said loudly.

"These Monitors aren't just a bunch of Russian com-

mandos! I have proof that they're representatives of a

superior culture from some planet out in space! Don't

you realize what that means? If they have the tech-

nology for interstellar travel, they could squash anything

we might throw at them like you'd step on a cockroach!"

"Oh-oh." Maxwell looked worried. "We went too far.

He's cracked under the strain."

"He looks all right to me," Blackwish said. "I think

the man's malingering!"

"If you start shooting, they'll take the wraps off and

blow the planet right out of orbit!"

"Now, now, Blondel," Maxwell soothed, "don't be wor-

ried. We know just how to deal with little green men.

We're just going to send a nice little bomb over that will

blow them up before they can blow us up; you see?"

"I tell you, I know what I'm talking about! I'm not

crazy! I saw one, with his disguise off! He was dark

brown and shiny—"

"What did I tell you?" Blackwish crowed triumphantly.

"Negroes in white-face, gentlemen! My worst fears real-

ized! Inspired by the masters in the Kremlin, the Afri-

cans have at last emerged into the open!"

"They're not Africans! They're aliens! If you'd just

look in my pocket—"

"Colonel," Blackwish said sternly, "I sense somehow

that this man is not SCRAG timber. Keeps telling me the

enemy is first one thing, and then another!"

"He's just upset, General," Maxwell said worriedly.

"He'll be all right as soon as he sees that he has an al-

ternative—"

Blackwish stepped back, crooked a finger at Maxwell.

"You and I had better have a little talk," he said darkly.

"I'm beginning to see the pattern" here. The man's an

obvious agent provocateur, sent in by the borsht—and-

vodka-swilling enemy to confuse the clear issues of

Americanism versus Red domination."

"But, General—"

"Just step out in the corridor with me for a moment,

Colonel." Blackwish jerked his head at the silent heavy-

weight who had been standing by during the proceed-

ings. "Oscar, place the Colonel under arrest until we've

had time to go over his security record."

"But, General—"

"Outside." Blackwish stalked away, followed by Max-

well and silent Oscar.

Alone, Blondel tugged at the ropes binding his arms

and legs to the chair. There seemed to be a little give

in the loops thrown around his left wrist. He strained,

wormed his hand free with no more than the loss of a

little skin. Out in the hall, Blackwish's voice droned on,

counterpointed by Maxwell's protestations.

The knots securing the right hand were almost out of

reach. Blondel broke two fingernails before worrying the

first strands free. Two minutes later he was massaging

his numbed wrists. Then he bent to start in on the

cords securing his ankles.

The side door clicked and swung open. Kenny entered,

looking pleased. He held a 9mm Beretta in his right fist.

"I finally got a couple bullets in my gun," he announced.

"Where do you want it, chum? Between the eyes OK?"

For a moment Blondel sat frozen, looking down the

gaping barrel of the weapon in the Lance-Corporal's

hand. He swallowed. His ears made a distinct popping noise,

and the thought of the wonderful intricacy of the mech-

anism that was a human body flitted through his brain.

"Kenny," he heard himself saying carefully. "I think

the general has changed his mind about shooting me.

You see, he needs me to do a job—"

"Some guys is fussy about messing up the face," Kenny

confided. He looked Blondel's features over critically.

"But in your case, I guess it don't matter."

"Now, Kenny, the general's just stepped out. Why

don't you just check with him—"

"Personal, I like the old beanshot because it's like

quick, you know? A wrong slug in the gut, maybe a guy

can kick around a while before he croaks." Lenny shook

his head. "Sloppy, very sloppy."

"You see, we're all friends again, Kenny." Blondel

managed a sickly grin. "He just forgot to have me un-

tied—"

"So you can take your choice. Personal, I'd go for

the knob, but you might be one of them guys likes a nice

open-box funeral."

"Kenny, the general will be very upset if you shoot me

now, because—"

"Don't yell," Kenny warned. "Now, snap it up before

the old coot comes back and louses up the whole caper."

He lowered his voice. "The way he changes his mind all

the time, I got a idea his marbles is loose, you know?"

"Yes, Kenny, you're right. Now, I have a proposal

for you. How would you like to see something very un-

usual?"

Kenny nodded. "OK. But look, I got a job to do—"

"It's something I want you to have. I'd hate to think

of the general getting it. Now don't shoot me before I

can show you."

Kenny frowned. "You got dough on you?" He shifted

the gun to his left hand.

"Not exactly money; something much better. Just let

me get it out of my pocket—"

"Watch it!"

"No guns, Kenny. Just a little souvenir I picked up.

. . ." He groped in his pocket, brought out the grain-of-

rice hearing aid he had taken from the fallen Monitor.

"Now, Kenny." Blondel licked dry lips. "This little de-

vice will enable you to hear flies walking on the ceiling."

"So?" Kenny raised his shoulders. "Who wants to

hear flies walking?"

"How about this?" Blondel tried again, found the but-

ton-sized repellor-field generator. "You just twiddle this,

and nobody can get near you."

"Yeah, I seen stink-bombs before. That ain't worth no

big dough."

Blondel was frantically rummaging for the control unit

from the Monitor's boot-heel, instead encountered the

gloves.

"What's that?" Kenny leaned forward.

"These are, ah, gloves." Sparring for time, Blondel

pulled one on. "Nice, don't you think?" He displayed

the gloved hand. "Just the thing for special occasions—"

"Nuts," Kenny said. "I think you're stalling, Bo—"

"Now, Kenny . . ." Blondel gripped the arms of the

chair. "Don't do anything hasty . . ." His hands closed,

tensing for the impact as Kenny raised the pistol. "If

you'll just wait a couple of seconds, we'll both avoid a

big mistake. ..."

"Hey!" Kenny was frowning darkly at Blondel's right

hand. "What you doing to the chair?"

Blondel looked down, only then noticing a curious sen-

sation in his right hand. The left, ungloved hand was grip-

ping the polished hardness of oak; but under the right

hand, snugged into the Monitor's glove, the wood had

collapsed like damp papier-mache.

"What's the idea busting up the furniture?" Kenny de-

manded.

Blondel opened his hand. The glove seemed a trifle

warm to the touch, but otherwise was as light and supple

as a silk driving glove. He poked at the wood. It felt

as hard as wood usually felt. He cautiously squeezed the

chair arm again. There was a soft crunching sound, as

the tough material yielded into splinters. It felt, Blondel

decided, like undercooked spaghetti.

"Geeze!" Kenny gaped at the spectacle.

Blondel gripped the edge of the wooden seat and

squeezed. The wood went flat, with a sound like walnut

shells underfoot. Kenny stepped closer, his mouth open,

his eyes fixed on the enchanted hand. Blondel reached,

gripped the muzzle of the gun between thumb and fore-

finger, and pinched it flat. Kenny hardly noticed. He

watched dumbly as Blondel nipped off the ropes on his

legs and stood.

"Just go stand in the corner, now, Kenny," Blondel

directed. "When the general comes back, tell him I had

to hurry along to a magician's convention. He needn't

bother to chase me, because I'll be using my cloak of in-

visibility and my flying carpet. Be good, now." He edged

around the paralyzed Lance Corporal and exited through

the side door.

CHAPTER TEN

Blondel sought out the back stairs, descended si-

lently, emerged in a rubbish-packed back alley. He fol-

lowed it until it debouched into a cramped rectangle

of lumpy black-top under a towering billboard announcing

the availability of Jewels on Credit. Something dark and

massive loomed in the deep shadows against a lichenous

wall of kidney-colored brick. It was the SCRAG Z-car.

Blondel started past it, then paused.

Dashing to SCRAG headquarters with the news of the

true nature of the Invader had been a serious error in

judgment. But if he could get through to Washington now,

it might not be too late. There, if anywhere, some still-

organized remnant of U. S. sovereignty might yet be

found. And with the information he could supply—plus

the miracle gadgets in his pockets . . .

The rest was a little vague, but the immediate objec-

tive was obvious. The car was waiting. True, it was a

trifle conspicuous. But if he could reach open country

it might well slip through, what with its armor, radar-

negative gear, and cross-country speed. So far, every move

he had made to join the resistance to the invaders had

ended -in a hung jury. Now, at last, direct action was at

hand. He took a moment to lift the access panel over the

rear-mounted power plant and check for TNT charges,

found none.

As he reached for the door there was a stir behind

him. Something icy cold touched the back of his neck.

"Yeah," a thin voice murmured near his right ear. "It's

a gat. You the guy who owns this crate?"

"Ahhherrrummm! . . . Yes," Blondel decided quickly.

"But you can have it. I don't need it anymore. It's a

terrible gas-eater, and as for parking the thing—"

"Good," the voice cut him off. "Nasty Jack wants to see

you."

"Ah. . .. Nasty Jack?"

"Let's go. We'll take my car."

"Look, there's something I'd like to confess—"

"Save it for Sunday." The gat poked a little harder.

"Shake it, rube."

"About the Z-car—"

There was a soft click as the safety went off the gun.

Blondel moved hastily off in the indicated direction,

fetched up beside the dark-gleaming, chrome-fitted bulk

of a late-model hearse.

"Inside. If you handle yourself nice, you get to finish

the trip sitting up."

"Can't we talk this over? You're making a serious mis-

take—"

"Some guys got wrong ideas about when to flap their

lip," the voice grated. "Inside! Drive slow and stick to the

back streets. If they spot us, go into high and we'll find

out if the guy was lying about what this can will do."

Silently, Blondel slid behind the wheel, started up,

maneuvered the heavy car out into the dark street.

Forty minutes of cautious travel by circuitous routes

which skirted the growing islands of Monitorial recon-

struction brought them to a section of blocky, porticoed

houses perched at the edges of truncated lawns fronting

cracked sidewalks.

"Next left." The command came from the darkness.

Blondel complied.

"Turn in here." Blondel swung into a graveled drive,

pulled to a stop beside a stately old frame house shaded

by lofty elms, its facade gleaming a ghoulish pale

blue in the glow from a large rectangular sign planted in

the center of the lawn, discreetly announcing "Personal-

ized Care For Your Loved Ones."

"Get out."

"Uh, there's something I really think I ought to ex-

plain before this goes any further," Blondel started.

"Tell Jack. He likes to listen to guys try to explain."

They crossed the lawn, rounded the house to a side

door; Blondel's guide rapped three times, then two, then

four. Nothing happened.

"Hey, Max!" he shouted.

"Yeah?" The door opened and an unshaven man with

a fat, pale face looked out. Blondel responded to a poke

in the lumbar vertebrae, stepped into a spacious kitchen

redolent of tomato paste and Chianti.

"This is the mug Jack was wanting to talk to."

The fat man frisked Blondel in a bored way, nodded.

"Go on in."

Again the prod from behind. Blondel twitched, thinking

of the glove in his coat pocket, the repellor-field gear—

"Don't stall, rube." At an extra-sharp jab he fairly

leaped through a swing door and was in a room of cor-

roded rococco elegance, staring at a man who sat alone

at the head of a long table, peeling a grape with a pen-

knife.

"Meet Nasty Jack," the voice behind him said. "Don't

do nothing, don't say nothing, unless he tells you to."

The man called Nasty Jack was lean, dark, with shiny

Valentine hair and a gold tooth. The sleeves of his purple

silk shirt were held up by diamond-studded arm-bands,

and another diamond, the size of an elk's tooth, impaled

his yellow knit tie. He thrust the grape into his mouth,

chewed thoughtfully, looking Blondel over, spat the seeds

on the tablecloth.

"So you're a general, hah?" His voice was a bass

rumble.

"No, I'm not, and if that nitwit who brought me here

would have listened to me—"

"Got busted, hey?" Nasty Jack nodded understandingly.

"The same thing happened to me, the time I was in the

army. Some stoolie from the IG claimed I was renting

out recruits at a buck fifty an hour to crooked contrac-

tors. Three stripes and a rocker down the drain." Jack

poured dusky red wine from a bottle, into a jelly glass,

swallowed it whole.

"You don't seem to get the idea—" Blondel started.

"But I'm broad-minded, General," Jack cut him off. "As

far as I'm concerned, once a general, always a general."

He folded the knife with a flick of the thumb and

dropped it into the pocket of a checkered vest. "Now

let's talk over this deal of yours."

"If you'd let me explain—"

Jack waved away the offer. "Everybody falls off the

wagon once in a while, General," he said. "The only

difference, you and me got caught." He leaned forward.

"You still ready to go ahead with the proposition?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"Because in case you had a change of plans, General,

Nasty Jack is not the guy to take it calm. Get me?"

- "Certainly. But—"

"So that just leaves the details to iron out, right?"

"Well. . ."

"OK." Jack poked a finger at Blondel. "Now, how

soon can you have the dough ready?"

"The dough . . ..?"

- "I hope you got no funny ideas about the dough, Gen-

eral," Jack said ominously.

"No, no, of course not. It's just that—well, we gen-

erals have a lot on our minds. I seem to have sort of for-

gotten some of the details."

"Geez!" Jack looked at him admiringly. "Any guy which

can forget a detail like five million iron men in gold is

the kind of operator to which I take my hat off to!"

"Sure," Blondel swallowed. "Five million. How thought-

less of me—"

"So—just as soon as you make delivery, the skilled

manpower of my organization is ready to go, just like I

told you." Jack leaned back and smiled. His gold tooth

threw back a sinister reflection from the candle-shaped

bulb in the unshaded socket on the wall.

"Your, ah, organization," Blondel stalled. "Ummm,

skilled manpower ..."

"Now, I'm not the nosey type, General," Jack raised

his hands, fending off the idea. "I don't know exactly

what you got in mind. But Central Headquarters for

American National Crime, Robbery, and Extortion is

strictly a patriotic group. We're with you all the way—

as soon as I get the dough."

"Behind me," Blondel gulped.

"As Chairman of CHANCRE, let me tell you, General,

you're getting a loyal bunch of boys, ready to do their

bit for freedom."

"Freedom." Blondel nodded. "Well, that certainly

sounds . . ." He paused. "You say they're . . . ready to

do their bit... ?"

"Damn right! General, if there's one thing the mem-

bership of CHANCRE is against, it's better law-enforce-

ment. And from what I seen of these Monitors, once

they're in the saddle, the good old days are on the way

out fast!"

"How many men have you got?" Blondel inquired

crisply.

"About six thousand skilled technicians, all equipped

with bullet-proof vests, two-way wrist radios, and records

as long as your arm, each and every one. In a word,"

reliable pros; none of these punk red-hots which they

seen a little television and think they're Al Capone."

"Jack," Blondel leaned forward tensely, "those other

plans—they're out the window. Something, new has come

up."

Jack scowled. "Just a minute, General! A double-

cross—"

"Skip the commercial," Blondel cut in. "This is im-

portant. We both want the same thing: to get rid of

the Monitors. Now pass that wine bottle over here and

let's get down to some serious discussion. There are a

couple of things you ought to know about . . ."

"Martians, hey?" Jack shook his head self-critically. "I

should of figured that one myself. I knew there was

something creepy about that mob. They're all over this

town like grated cheese on a plate of pasta, but they steer

clear of my little place of business here like it was poison.

I checked with a couple colleagues, and they tell me the

same thing: not one customer in a yellow suit. Believe me,

General, with as many of these dudes as we got in town,

that ain't natural."

"Now, my idea is that everyone in the country will

feel the same way you and I do, Jack," Blondel pursued

his point. "All we have to do is get the information to

the public. The minute they realize we've been invaded

by nonhuman monsters from outer space, they'll sponta-

neously rise in a body."

"With the odds a couple hundred million of us pa-

triotic citizens to maybe a hundred thousand of them, how

can we lose?" The CHANCRE chief looked at his solid

gold strap watch.

"If I get on the hook right now, I can catch Vito in

Brooklyn, Ricco in Detroit, Carlo in Washington, Dino in

Philly, Sacco in Albany, Ralph in Pittsburgh—"

"Ralph?"

"I see you got the same old idea that all hoods are

Italians," Jack said pityingly. "I'm calling a general meet-

ing of the whole Board of Directors for ten o'clock tonight.

By that time, General, you better have everything set.

We got no time to Waste if we're going to put the country

back in the hands of the common people."

From his chair at the head of the long table, Nasty

Jack waved a gold-tipped cigarette toward Blondel and

said: "Take it, General. The boys are listening."

Blondel looked along the row of expectant faces. With

the exception of one or two eye-patches and crumpled

ears, they looked like nothing so much as a group of

respectable county commissioners, meeting to divide up

the week's haul of bribes.

He cleared his throat. "Gentlemen," he announced,

"our only hope of success depends on split-second timing

and perfect co-ordination. Our first move will be to seize

the radio and TV stations in selected cities, and put the

news on the air. At the same time, we distribute leaflets,

hitting every major city between Boston and Miami.

Simultaneously, our runners cover the same areas on

foot and bicycle, passing out proclamations."

"Nice," Jack nodded. "I can see how you made your

star, General. Now, on the print contracts, I got a

cousin—"

"No nepotism, Jack," Blondel said sternly. "This is for

the good of the country. Remember?"

"What's good for private enterprise, is good for the

country," Jack retorted. "That's what Abraham Lincoln, or

one of them guys, said."

"I think you're quoting him out of context," Blondel

rebutted.

"Chief, you want I should rub out this monkey?" a

scholarly-looking member inquired from his place.

"Keep your dukes away from your rod, Angelo," Jack

said sternly. "You ain't got the eye for a precision as-

signment. Besides, when I want the general plugged, I'll

say so."

"Maybe we'd better get on with the plans," Blondel

said hastily. "I've drawn up a list of clear-channel sta-

tions that can blanket the eastern seaboard. I don't know

exactly what techniques the Monitors are using to jam

our broadcasts, but I'm pretty sure that possession of

these transmitters is the key to the situation." He handed

out sheets of paper which were passed from hand to

hand along the table.

"You boys know the situation in your own areas,"

Jack stated. "So how about it? Let's have some proposals

from the floor on the best way to knock 'em off without

busting 'em up."

"I got a better idea," a member offered. "Let's pass

this jazz, and knock off a couple banks instead. I know

of a couple over Duluth way which they're practically

begging for it."

"Yeah," another chimed in. "We can fix soldier-boy

here with a cement overcoat and let him go for a swim

in the lake—"

"Nuts," contributed a third. "Why mess with banks,

when the mint is sitting right there in DC—and no-

body watching it but some nancies in yellow pants?"

Jack dipped into his coat pocket and produced a large

business-like automatic. He rapped on the table with it

and cleared his throat menacingly.

"Objections overruled," he announced. "General, go

ahead with the plan."

"Ah—the leaflets will have to be ready twenty-four

hours before M-minute," Blondel went on. "The bicycle

corps will have to move out as soon as possible thereafter,

and be in position—"

"Nobody ain't going to get me on no bicycle," a stout,

bishop-like member stated flatly. Jack fingered the gun

and looked at him thoughtfully.

". . . Unless I feel like riding a bicycle," the man

added. Jack lifted the gun and weighed it on his hand.

". . . And it just so happens I feel like it," the

speaker concluded, looking around defiantly. "And when

I feel like riding a bicycle, there ain't nobody that can

stop me from riding a bicycle."

"You ain't riding no bicycle, Mario," Jack told him.

". . . Unless I change my mind."

"And . .. ?"

"And I just changed my mind," Angelo muttered, sub-

siding.

"Now, our best bet for taking the stations is to in-

filtrate them in advance," Blondel said into the conversa-

tional gap. "We'll need forty picked crews of about twenty

men, dressed up as fans and equipped with autograph

books and guitars."

"What's with the guitars?" a tiny, spider-like mem-

ber with a prominent Adam's apple demanded. "We got

fast cars, and plenty of ammo. I say we fan out and plug

every yellow-back we see, and any incidental coppers that

maybe are still running around loose. Then we move on

to DC and clean it out. Then we round up all the con-

gressmen we can find, shoot 'em, and appoint ourselves

to fill out the terms."

"Fiorella, you are a dirty, lousy, un-American rat,"

Jack cut him off coldly. "Boys—take him for a ride in

the country."

"Hey—wait a minute!" Fiorella protested, as his

neighbors rose and closed in. "So OK, I was out of

line—" Large hands clamped on him, lifted him bodily,

bore him doorward, kicking futilely.

"Don't take the Caddie," Jack called. "I just had it

washed. Now"—he looked around at the others—"where

were we?"

"Just infiltrating the radio stations," Blondel said. "Re-

member, violence is no good; but it—"

There was a sharp rat-tat-tat-tat! from outside. Nasty

Jack looked up with an annoyed expression. "I told them

punks to take a run out in the boondocks," he said. "But

no, they got to litter up the back yard."

"As I was saying, violence is out," Blondel pressed on.

"The Monitors have equipment that will protect them

from anything we can throw at them. We'll have to use

trickery and passive resistance—"

"Hey, Jack," Mario spoke up. "How does this pigeon

get the inside info on the yellow-backs? What is he, some

kind of stoolie?"

"Yeah, no gats, he says," Angelo joined in. "This pansy

is a like plant, if youse ask me—"

"I'm a no lika thees beez," a blue-jowled fellow growled.

"Whatsa good we gotta machines gun, we no usa, hah?"

"Quiet, Ralph." Jack raised a hand. "The General here

scouted around and done some nifty inside work. He

knows what he's talking about."

"Sez he," someone growled.

"I'll show you a sample of their work." Blondel took

out the glove and slipped it on, just as a rap sounded

at the door.

"Yeah?" Nasty Jack bellowed.

"There's a guy out here, he wants you should talk to

him," a muffled voice sounded through the panel.

"Tell him to drop dead, I'm busy!"

"Boss, I think maybe you ought to talk to the bum."

"OK ... OK. Send him in."

"He wants you should come out."

Jack slapped the table with both hands. "Boy! What

I got to put up with." He rose, went to the door. As he

opened it, a thunderous bam-bam-bam-bam! roared, rack-

eting between the walls, sending dust flying from sudden

craters in the opposite wall. Blondel whirled in time to

see Jack fly backward into the room, slam the floor on his

back, and slide. The tiny figure of Fiorella came through

the door, dwarfed by the Thompson submachine gun in

his hands.

"No artillery, hah?" he inquired brightly of the as-

sembled spectators. "I told you his clutch was slipping."

He handed the gun to a subordinate, drew a yellow

hankie from the breastpocket of his fawn-colored suit,

dabbed at his forehead, and took the chair vacated by

the former CHANCRE chief.

"OK." He rubbed his hands together and gave Blondel

a piercing look. "Now let's decide what to do about this

wisey and his big ideas, eh, boys?"

"If you idiots would listen to me," Blondel appealed

for the fourteenth time, "you'd realize that none of

your schemes for butchering Monitors is going to work!

Our only chance is to arouse the populace by exposing

them as invaders from space—"

"You slobs are all wrong," Ricco stated. "We ought

to dump this mug in the lake tonight, or maybe first thing

in the morning on account of it's too late to get a couple

yards of ready-mix delivered today."

"Yeah, all we ever get to do is plug guys," Vito

mourned. "I read in the comics all these swell capers,

how they string guys up by the thumbs, and strap 'em

down to the streetcar tracks, and dump 'em in melted

iron, and all. But us, we got to go the conservative

route: bing! bing! and it's all over."

"You got to sacrifice some of the glamor for high

production," Fiorella pointed out patiently. "Also, we got

the public relations angle to figure. You throw a guy

off the Trib tower, and some pedestrian is liable to get

hurt. You got to be safety conscious."

"So, OK, we tie his wrists to the back bumper of a

car, and his feet to the front piazza, and—"

"Why don't you listen?" Blondel demanded. "Time is

growing short—"

There was a rap at the door. "Hey, Fiorella," someone

called. "There's a guy out here wants to see you."

The little man drew a large watch from his vest pocket

and studied it.

"Twenty minutes," he wagged his head sadly. "It don't

take long for the rot to set in."

"He says it's important," the voice persisted.

"Carlo, you go," Fiorella directed hopefully. Carlo

shook his head silently.

"Look, you guys ain't even given me a chance I should

explain my program," the recently-appointed leader pro-

tested.

"Better go ahead, Boss," Rocco said in an ominous

tone.

"Yeah, if there's one thing us boys don't stand for,

it's a chief which he's got a yellow streak," Sacco said.

Fiorella pushed back his chair. "Sometime I wonder

why I bucked so hard for the job."

"Remember Jack," Ricco encouraged. "He looked pretty

good going out that door."

"Yeah, but he didn't look so hot coming back in."

Fiorella squared his narrow shoulders, marched to the

door, threw it wide with a dramatic gesture and braced

himself. However, no shots rang out.

"He's in the living room, boss," Max's voice was audi-

ble. "He says . . ." The conversation was cut off by the

closing door.

"Now, fellows," Blondel said into the heavy silence in

the room. "Let's forget past differences and face up to the

fact that the freedom and independence of humanity are

at stake here. We've got to stop all this bickering and

take effective action before everybody in the country

has joined Happy Horinip's Quota Toppers and settled

down to the role of subject race—"

"Now's the time, boys," Ricco said flatly. "While no-

body ain't looking." He flicked his wrist and a snub-

nosed Walther .635 appeared from nowhere, nestled in

his palm.

"Fiorella won't like it if he comes back and finds an-

other mess on the rug," Vito predicted.

"I'll just croak him barehanded," Carlo offered, rising.

Blondel got to his feet and backed away from the

table. "Fellows, you're making a great mistake! The Moni-

tors are the enemy, not little old me!"

Ricco stood, planted himself solidly, placed his left

hand on his left hip, raised the gun and brought it down

carefully, drawing a bead.

"Right through the gravy stain under the first button,"

he called the shot. "No fair moving, now, Buster."

Blondel squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't do it—" His

words were drowned by the shattering report of a gun.

He waited for a moment for the pain to hit, then opened

one eye in time to see Ricco drop his gun and tumble to

the rug. Fiorella stood in the doorway, blowing smoke

from the business end of a large revolver.

"I turn my back five minutes, and you mugs start

clowning," he said in an aggrieved tone. "Don't nobody

shoot the Rube. It looks like maybe we got a use for him,

after all."

"Thanks very much, Fiorella," Blondel started, feeling

his legs begin to wobble in reaction to the excitement of

the last few moments. "You'll never regret—" He broke

off as the CHANCRE chief stepped back and waved a

dark-cloaked figure into the room.

"It looks like poor old Jack, are eye pee, missed a couple

bets," Fiorella said. "Boys"—he indicated the newcomer

—"meet the real General Blackwish."

"A heart attack, you say?" The general eyed the

sprawled corpse of Nasty Jack with distaste. "In that case,

what accounts for the holes in his chest?"

"Moths," Fiorella said succinctly. "Now, General, since

you tipped us off this monkey is a ringer, which we was

going to do away with him anyway, I don't exactly get

the reason why you was in such a sweat to keep him alive.

Ricco was one of my best boys, and—"

"Men," Blackwish looked sternly along the table. "We

face an enemy of awesome power. Traditional offensive

techniques are useless against them. In that, Blondel was

right." He paused, impressively. "But we at SCRAG have

the answer."

"What's the question?" Vito asked, puzzled.

"The question is survival!" Blackwish's fist struck the

table a resounding blow. "To harass them with mere guns

is futile! To attempt lesser measures, such as the visionary

scheme to discredit them with wild stories of extrater-

restrial origin is nonsense! - Only one course is open to

us: Instant, total, utter annihilation of their headquarters

in a single, irresistible blow!"

"You can't—" Blondel started.

"Gentlemen," Blackwish purred, "we have located this

target. It consists of an immense floating fortress—a man-

made island over five miles in length—anchored in the

south Atlantic, some thirty miles south southeast of Dry

Tortuga."

"They have defensive screens that will stop anything

you can drop on them!" Blondel interrupted. "If you'd

give me a chance, I could show you—"

"Our weapon," Blackwish's voice rose, "is of such a

nature that no defense can stand against it!"

"You'll never get it to the target," Blondel persisted.

"They have a repellor field—"

"Have you gentlemen ever heard," Blackwish shouted

him down, "of an implosion bomb?"

"How's about if we hit the First National," Carlo pro-

posed. "It ain't a fancy bank, but it's solid, you know?

My old man knocked it off once, back in '28, and he says

to me, Carlito—"

"I don't care what kind of weapon you've got," Blondel

yelled. "A stack of H-bombs won't do any good if you

can't get them through—"

"H-bombs?" Blackwish smiled grimly. "Child's toys,"

he dismissed them. "The implosion bomb is based on a

new principle: A core of annihilated matter into which the

surrounding material is forced by pressures comparable

to those at the heart of a star! The result: A localized

collapse of the very fabric of space. In short—implosion

on a titanic scale!"

"How you figure to get this bomb out to this here

island?" Sacco demanded.

"I have a miniature SCRAG copter of advanced de-

sign," Blackwish said. "At this moment it is concealed

under a tarpaulin behind the greenhouse, where my men

placed it earlier this evening. The bomb is aboard, armed

and ready."

"What's to keep 'em from shooting it down?" Carlo

queried.

"Experience has shown that the Monitors are incapable

of intercepting our aircraft," Blackwish replied.

"Nuts," Blondel commented. "I think they let aircraft

through because they don't want to injure anybody by

forcing them to crash-land."

"Who's supposed to fly this baby out there?" Mario

inquired.

"That, gentlemen, is where Mr. Blondel enters the

picture," Blackwish stated. "He happens to be an experi-

enced pilot."

"I won't do it," Blondel said loudly. "It would be

asking for reprisals on the whole human population!"

"Is that the only reason you need the mug?" Fiorella

raised his eyebrows.

"The reason seems to me to be sufficient!" Blackwish

snapped. "It happens that SCRAG has no qualified aero-

nautical specialists in its ranks."

"Yeah?" Fiorella snapped his cigarette butt over his

shoulder and picked up his revolver. He spun the cylin-

der, then turned to face Blondel.

"I used to be Navy," he said. "I got over four thousand

hours in jets. I'll take your bomb in, General. And we

can dump this mug right now, which I don't trust him no

farther than I can throw him."

"Oh-oh, here we go again." Blondel watched the gun

muzzle swing to bear on him. "Look, give me thirty

seconds, OK? Just to show you what I'm talking

about. . . ." He fumbled desperately in his pockets, turned

up a stick of Wrigley's, several pennies, the miniature

hearing aid—and the tiny control device taken from the

Monitor's boot-heel.

"That is it." He held it up. "You just turn this little

know knob here—"

The blam! of the .44 revolver filled the room with

acrid smoke. Blondel felt a light tap at his chest, followed

instantly by a sensation of heat that swept over him and

faded at once. Fiorella lowered the gun, peering through

the smoke.

"Hey." Someone waved his hands to clear away the

obscuring veil. "He's still sitting up!"

"Kind of short range for a miss, chief," Sacco com-

mented. "But don't worry . . ." He brought his gun up

and fired. Again Blondel felt the light blow, this time di-

rectly over the heart. Sacco's confident grin faded as he

blinked at Blondel, still sitting rigid in the chair. The gun-

man turned the weapon so as to look down the barrel.

"It ain't never done that before," he said. "All I done

was pull the trigger—" There was a deafening bang and

Sacco executed a back-flip, flopped around for a few

seconds, and lay still. There seemed to be considerable

blood.

Fiorella, holding the big revolver in both hands now,

with the butt resting on the table, he'd it out at arm's

length, the muzzle almost touching Blondel's shirt front.

Blondel, still sitting as if paralyzed, roused himself sud-

denly, reached, caught the gun in his hand.

"This is what I was trying to tell you," he said. "It's

the repellor field—"

"My . . . my gun," Fiorella quavered, staring at it. The

barrel was folded almost double. Fiorella carefully placed

the weapon on the table before him. It looked like

squeezed modeling clay.

"Here, what's this?" Blackwish queried. "What . . .

what. . . ?"

Vito's gun whipped up, fired twice. Blondel reached

out, put his palm over the smoking hole just as the third

round fired. The resultant explosion sent four members

of the CHANCRE steering committee sprawling, bleeding

from multiple contusions, and knocked Vito over back-

wards, to sit up cursing, holding his shattered hand.

Blondel jumped up, knocking his chair over, backed

around the table.

"Grab him!" a survivor yelled weakly. Hands reached

cautiously—and were thrown back by what seemed to be

an invisible barrier six inches from Blondel's body. Black-

wish recoiled in" his chair, his mouth open. The

CHANCRE men still functioning backed away, hands

raised.

"You're all a bunch of idiots," Blondel said. "Maybe

between us we could have accomplished something, but

all I've gotten have been double-crosses, excuses, and

assassination attempts. OK. I'm through trying to line

up any help. I'll do it alone. Just stay where you are. I'm

leaving now." They watched dumbly, as Blondel stepped

over the various bodies on the floor and opened the door.

The dumpy figure of Max stood in the hall, the Thomp-

son gun aimed across his hip. It jumped, spouting red

fire, and Blondel felt the rapid slap-slap as the heavy

slugs struck the shield around him. He kept coming,

and Max tossed the Thompson into the air and dived for

cover.

No one else barred his way. He went along the drive,

past the black gleam of the hearse, crossed a formal lily

garden, saw the shrouded shape projecting from the

bushes beside a small greenhouse. He pulled it out,

stripped off the tarp. The contraption thus exposed re-

sembled a cross between a vacuum cleaner and a diving

suit.

A hoarse call came from behind him; he turned.

"Blondel . . . !" It was General Blackwish, coming

across the lawn, waving an arm excitedly. "It's my duty

to inform you that I've declared martial law here!" he

hooted. "In the name of the Federal Government I'm

ordering you to place yourself at the disposal of the

nearest military commander, who happens to be myself!

I'm also commandeering for official use the bulletproof

vest you're wearing, as well as any other items of military

value you may have in your possession!"

"Go soak your eyeballs," Blondel retorted. "I'm taking

your flying pogo stick, General. I hope it's got plenty of

fuel aboard."

"That's government property!" Blackwish protested,

as Blondel deployed the folding blades, unbuckled the

straps which secured the pilot to the saddle. "I'm warning

you, this is an act of open treason!"

"Where's the bomb stowed?" Blondel demanded.

"My lips are sealed," Blackwish declared, backing away.

"General, I don't have any time to waste. It's a long

way to Dry Tortuga."

"You wouldn't deliver your nation's secret weapon to

the enemy?" Blackwish's face looked purple in the moon-

light.

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I ... you mean ... am I to understand you'll fly

the SCRAG mission?"

"I guess that's up to me, eh, General?"

Blackwish's face twitched with strain. "I ... I suppose

I have no choice but to place the destiny of America

in your hands," he managed. "Surely you—a former com-

missioned officer of the American armed forces—will not

betray that high trust?"

"The bomb."

"There." Blackwish indicated a pouch attached to the

main supporting column of the tiny machine. Blondel

opened it, lifted out a heavy cylindrical object no larger

than a salt shaker.

"Is this all there is to it?"

"It's armed and ready," Blackwish said in a hushed

tone. "It's necessary merely to give it a brisk rap. Drop-

ping it from waist height onto a hard floor will do nicely."

Blondel tucked the bomb gingerly into his pocket, then

inserted himself into the loose-fitting coverall that served

as pilot's compartment, settled himself in the saddle. The

straps buckled securely across his knees, tying him in

place. He tilted the plastic helmet down over his head,

snugged his feet to the control pedals.

"You will drop it, won't you, Blondel?" Blackwish's

voice was faint through the headpiece. "You won't yield

to any insane impulse to defect to the borsht-and-vodka-

swilling enemies of the democratic way of life?"

"It's about a three-hour flight," Blondel said. "Maybe

by the time I get there I'll have the answer to that one."

He studied the controls, flipped a switch, depressed a

key. The rotors came to instant life. He grabbed the steer-

ing levers, angled the abruptly lifting machine away from

the outspread branches of a tree. He looked back, caught

one glimpse of the foreshortened figure staring up after

him. Then darkness closed in, and he was alone, rising

fast into the inky night sky.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Riding the pocket copter, Blondel decided after the

first ten minutes, was the closest approach to a witch's

broomstick that had yet been devised. Still, it was not

as uncomfortable as it looked. The saddle was nicely

padded, the coverall windproof, fleece-lined, and elec-

trically heated; the bubble helmet light and transparent,

pressurized with oxygen-enriched air. At ten thousand

feet he leveled off, studied the instrument faces set in the

handlebar of the machine, set off on a heading of one-oh-

five at an airspeed of one hundred and ten MPH. The

engine hummed smoothly; the slip stream howled around

the cleverly designed full-length windshield which de-

flected the worst of the air blast. Above, the short

blades whined, chopping at the air at ten thousand

RPM, hurtling him onward.

Below, through scattered cloud cover, he saw the city

slipping away to the west-—a vast sprawl of misty light

interrupted in great, rectilinear patches by the Monitor-

made clearings. Almost half the city, he estimated, had

now been leveled by the invaders.

The first hour passed. Blondel shifted against the

holddown straps, conscious of the weight of the implo-

sion bomb nestled in his pants pocket. Blackwish's

scheme had been insane, of course—but his own was

probably no better. The Monitors, pacifistic though they

were, undoubtedly had effective methods of preventing

airborne attackers—even gnat-sized attackers like himself

—from getting too close. But since all other approaches

had failed, there was only this one forlorn hope left.

One man, one tiny infernal device, which might or might

not perform as advertised, and another thousand miles

of empty air to traverse before he would know the an-

swer.

Dawn came after an endless night: a glory of dusky

pink swelling to gold and then to a flat, wintry blue.

Blondel squinted out across the olive-drab blanket below,

cut by the silver threads of rivers, patched by tilled

acreage, blotched here and there by towns and cities,

and crisscrossed by roads that wandered along routes

originally marked out by beavers or elk or settlers pur-

suing lost goats. Far off to the north the mighty coast-to-

coast highway, designed by the Monitors, was a rigid

line of pale pink—a strange color for paving, Blondel

thought. But then, why not?

The day wore on. Once a gold-painted heli flitted under

him on a skew course, a bright dragonfly in the sunlight;

but it made no move to intercept him. He climbed then,

leveled at fifteen thousand. Far ahead, the metallic sheen

of the sea stretched to the horizon. Blondel remem-

bered the last meal he had eaten—lunch with Nelda at

the empty restaurant with the insidious Pekkerup hovering

like an officious mother hen. It seemed too long ago,

like a game of mud patties in another life.

And then the coast was under him, a long curve of

slate-blue, steely ocean stretching from the line of slow-

combing breakers edging the beach on and on to the

distant haze of the horizon.

It was mid-afternoon before he discovered the choco-

late bars, dates, and water supply tucked neatly away

in a pouch just below the left knee of the coverall.

He ate slowly, savoring every bite, using only a few

sips of water. If the Monitors' floating island was not in

the advertised position, it might be a long trip across

the ocean. ...

The first tentative yellowing of evening was touching

the farthest clouds when Blondel sighted the incredible

shape lying on the sea, thirty miles off his port bow. He

squeezed his eyes shut, opened them and looked again.

There it lay—a city, a patterned design in pale pinks

and blues and yellows, spread across the gently heaving

surface of the deep ocean.

He descended to five thousand, flying a wide circular

course, skirting the target, sizing it up. There were copters

in the air—he could see the tiny golden machines as

mere flecks of reflected sunlight, moving busily to and

fro, or setting out at remarkable speed across the water

toward the distant mainland—and in the other direction

too, toward Europe, and south toward the Venezuelan

coast.

Twilight deepened. The sun sank in familiar glory into

a molten copper sea; the first stars emerged. Across the

island city, lights came on, lining avenues, sparkling from

slim towers, winking from circling aircraft. Blondel took

a deep breath to quell the roil in his stomach, dropped

down until he was riding mere yards above the ghostly

whitecaps. It was almost full dark now. He picked a spot

that seemed to have less than the usual quota of lights,

and headed toward the floating fortress-headquarters of

the Monitors.

It was astonishingly easy. The rim of the island rose

sheer, ten feet above the choppy seas which seemed to

damp out as they approached the barrier before them.

Blondel flitted down almost silently in the shadow of a

graceful peach-colored dome, settled on a patch of what

appeared to be scarlet grass, swiftly slipped out of the

confining harness and hobbled on stiff limbs to the con-

cealment of a flowering shrub.

He stretched out, repressing groans of mingled pleas-

ure and pain, massaged his cramped legs and shoulders,

half-expecting to be pounced on by a squad of alert

Monitors. Through the stems of the bush he could see

the lighted avenue a block distant, thronged with slim,

athletic figures moving about their business. His eye fell

on the SCRAG copter, lying where he had left it by a

tiled walk, as conspicuous as a dead cat on the parlor

rug. He got to his feet, limped to it, his head still hum-

ming from the fourteen hours under the whirling blades,

lifted the apparatus and staggered back with it to shove

it far back under the foliage. Another glance along the

grassy walks and gardens revealed no hordes of traffic

cops descending. His approach, it appeared, had been

unnoticed.

The next problem was assuming larger proportions

now: how to find the commander of the invading forces.

There were a large number of imposing towers in sight,

any one of which might house the supreme enemy head-

quarters. His best bet, he reflected, might be to simply

appear and let himself be captured, after which . . .

- Footsteps crunched gravel nearby. Blondel crouched

back, saw a slender figure come into view around a curve

in the walk. In the glow of the varicolored lights sprinkled

across the nearby buildings, he saw that it was a nicely-

stacked young female. She came along slowly, humming

to herself. Blondel held his breath as she paused, look-

ing down at the trampled spot where the tiny copter had

landed. The girl stooped, came up with a scrap of paper.

Blondel winced as he recognized it as a Hershey-bar

wrapper, one of those he had emptied during the flight.

The girl turned, following the drag marks Blondel had

made in the grass. She lifted the screening fronds aside,

peered in at him.

"My God," she said, "what in the world are you doing

in there, Blondel?"

"Nelda—I can hardly believe—I mean, you look so—"

"Stop stuttering," the girl said sharply. "So I've lost

weight; but inside, I'm still the same ego-Gestalt in con-

frontation with a cryptic universe."

"It's you, all right," Blondel conceded. "But it's only

been a day and a half—"

Nelda waved a slim, manicured hand. "There's nothing

miraculous about it; the Monitors have a total under-

standing of such elementary matters as human metabo-

lism. Pekky arranged for me to have an hour or two in

the organic symmetrizer to iron out my little obesity

problem. But that's merely superficial. What I flipped

over was his understanding of the real, inner, suffering

me!"

"That's fine, Nelda," Blondel said nervously. "Ah . . .

is he trailing along behind you somewhere?" He looked

back along her trail.

Nelda sighed. "No. It's always like this. Every time I

find what appears to be a true, fate-ordained relationship,

it turns out to be platonic."

"That's too bad," Blondel commiserated, noting the

sleek curve of her once bulging flank, the perfectly pro-

portioned swell of her formerly overwhelming bosom.

"But I'm sure you're going to make lots of new friends.

In the meantime, maybe you could help me—"

"Help you?" Nelda echoed irately. "That's all I'm for,

I suppose! I just happened to be conceived, born, nour-

ished, educated, matured and placed in this particular

spot just so I could lend you five?"

"Gosh, Nelda, you take a more macrocosmic view of

things than I do," Blondel protested. "I just meant—"

"What are you doing here, anyway? Why are you dining

behind the shrubbery? You're not one of those poor

warped creatures who jump out at girls, are you?"

"Nelda, you know me better than that!"

"Yes—I know you have an irrational prejudice against

the Monitors, who just happen to be the most marvelous

thing that's ever happened to the human race!"

"Now, Nelda, I'm not prejudiced, but after all—"

"Why, of course," Nelda clapped her hands together,

"you've seen the truth at last!"

"Right!" Blondel agreed. "That's why I'm here, and—"

"Blondel, I should have known that such an essentially

perceptive person as yourself would eventually wake up

to the real nature of the Monitors!"

"You mean—you know, too?"

"Of course. I suspected it the minute I met Pekky,

and when I got to know him better—you know—then

I was sure!"

Blondel nodded. "I guess that would be a dead give-

away."

"I suppose you'll want your synaptic therapy right away;

that's best, because then you're so much more receptive

to what they call Gross Orientation, which, of course,

precedes the real re-educational process."

"Hold on, Nelda. I'm not sure—"

"Oh, don't be silly." Nelda took his arm and tugged

at him. "There's no point in losing your nerve just before

the big moment! There's nothing to be afraid of—"

"Wait! I don't think you understand, Nelda! You mean

that even now, after you know what they're really like,

that you want to sign up for their programs?"

"Don't you?"

"I'd prefer to leave my brains in their present self-

scrambled condition, thanks." Blondel disengaged his arm.

"Don't be a total cuboid, Blondel! Come along now, and

we'll go find Pekky and ask him to help you."

"I don't want their help! This is a serious matter. Don't

you understand?"

"Certainly, I know the old instinct for the inviolability

of the psyche. But it's like a lot of other silly old Judeo-

Christian hangups: After all, the essence of fun is the

violation of ritualistic taboos!"

"Nelda, I came here for a purpose—"

"And now we'll see to it that you don't chicken out

at the last moment."

Blondel, weak with fatigue, found himself being hauled

bodily from hiding.

"Nelda, the future of the human race—"

"That's it, Blondel! The whole, glorious, Monitor-

directed future of our poor, helpless, struggling species!

All you have to do is relax, and it will all be taken care

of!"

Blondel stiffened himself, pulled free from Nelda's grip.

"Sure," he panted. "That's the dream of humanity, in a

nutshell. But I'm not ready to sign up for embalming

yet, not as long as I can still suck in air and blow it out

again!"

"Blondel, you cretin! Do you mean you'd reject all

the wonderful things the Monitors offer, just because

of some idiotic, old-fashioned, masculine idea, like that

nonsense about climbing mountains and planting flags on

top, just because they're there?"

"You name it," Blondel said. "All I know is, I don't

want my destiny delivered to my door, gift-wrapped!"

"Men!" Nelda planted her fists on her trim hips. "You .

need keepers, and we women are lucky the Monitors

came along to take you in hand!"

"Now, Nelda, women are men, too, in one sense of the

word—"

"We're a race apart," Nelda said flatly. "Well, then, if

you didn't come to join the forces of enlightenment, what

do you want here? How did you get here, anyway? What

are you planning to do? Why don't you want them to

know you're here?"

"Nelda," Blondel appealed. "Calm yourself. I want to

see the leader of the Monitors. He must be here, some-

where."

"You mean the Tersh?"

"Not Jetterax?"

"Certainly. Why do you want to see him?"

"I ... I have something to tell him."

"Blondel, I don't trust you!"

"How can it hurt anything for me to talk to him?"

Blondel spread his hands.

"You aren't planning any . . . any mischief?"

"Who, me, Nelda?" Blondel looked innocent. "What

could a mere man do to hurt a Monitor?"

"That's true," Nelda conceded. "But why don't you

tell me what it is you want to tell him?"

"Never mind." Blondel started past her. "I'll find him

myself."

"No, wait; I guess you have to indulge your boyish

taste for the mysterious. Come on, and we'll see if we

can catch him before mid-morning contemplation."

The Tersh Jetterax looked up, beaming broadly as Nelda

and Blondel appeared at the open archway that gave

entrance to the airy vine-hung terrace where he sat be-

hind a low table set with a vast fruit bowl, plates on

doilies, and gleaming silver.

"Ah, welcome, my dears!" he cried. "My morning is

complete, now! Do sit down! Nelda, how delightful to see

the real you, freed from its former cocoon of unhealthy

flesh. And Blondel! At last you've come to us!"

"Humph!" Nelda sniffed. "It wasn't so unhealthy. In

fact, some gentlemen prefer a well-fleshed girl."

"Of course; but it's these weird imbalances we're all

pledged to correct, eh? Now, Blondel, dear boy, I've fol-

lowed your adventures with considerable interest. In a

sense, your experiences have been a microcosm of what

we must expect to encounter in the process of correcting

all the faults of your charming little world."

"You've, er, followed my adventures?"

The Tersh nodded. "And how delighted I was when I

saw that at last you were turning your course here. Your

disillusionment was a difficult time for you; but I fancy

that now, as you enter your new, enriched life, the old

traumas will soon disappear, and—"

"I wonder," Blondel interrupted, "if I could have a

few words with you in private?"

"Eh? But what have we to conceal, my boy? The sus-

picions and mutual mistrusts which once made such sub-

terfuge necessary do not exist here—"

"I have to talk to you alone."

"You mean you want me to leave?" Nelda fumed.

"Well, of all the—and after I brought you here myself—"

"Perhaps it would be best to indulge our new guest's

wishes," the Tersh suggested gently. "Just for a short

while, Nelda. There's a dear child."

She departed, protesting. Blondel took the chair across

from the aged-looking Monitor.

"Now, Blondel, in what way can I serve you?" The

latter beamed.

"Skip the routine," Blondel said bluntly. "I know what

you are."

The Tersh eyed him almost blankly, his wrinkled fea-

tures twitching into a number of tentative expressions

before falling back into the bland smile.

"Don't bother with the grimaces," Blondel said. "It

must be a strain on you, running through a list of native

facial codes and then working the right levers. I'd rather"

have you conserve your energy for what I have to tell

you."

"Ah . . . are you feeling well, my boy?"

"Your boy probably has nine legs and tentacles," Blon-

del said bluntly. "I don't know where you come from,

but we can cover that later—if there is a 'later.' Right

now I have an ultimatum to deliver."

There was a short, strained silence. Then: "This is

unfortunate," the Tersh said. "I see that you have some-

how stumbled on a small item of information that I had

hoped to keep confidential for just a little longer. Yes,

we Monitors are not members of your own race; but,

believe me, we are your friends."

"Why the masquerade, then? Why not come slithering

up to us, monster to man, and make your pitch?"

"I considered that the donning of cosmetic prosthet-

ics was no more than courteous," the Tersh Jetterax said

in a dignified tone. "After all, in your present immature

state of xenophobia you were hardly prepared to deal

with nonhumans as potential friends."

"How true. Now that we've got that straightened out,

how long will it take you to pack up and scat back to

your home base?"

"Now, now, Blondel, don't be hasty." The Tersh

showed a patient smile. "Surely you can see that for our

mission to depart now would be a gross injustice to your

poor race?"

"Nuts," Blondel dismissed the proposition. "What have

you done that's so great? Cleared out a few slums,

straightened out the highways, fired some crooked cops,

and taken the fat off some of our compulsive eaters. Not

a thing we couldn't have done ourselves!"

"But did you do them?" the Tersh murmured. "As for

more sophisticated measures, to introduce any technique

from a higher technological plateau would be a gross vio-

lation of regulations." He shook his head. "No, my boy,

our obligation to the entire brotherhood of intelligent life

permits of no move so barbaric as to leave you to your

own devices now. No matter how petty, cruel, blind,

shortsighted, foolish, venal, bloodthirsty, masochistic and

obtuse you may be, it is a matter of principle with us,

as civilized beings, to do our very best to raise you to

our own level of advancement along the road to true

enlightenment."

"Too bad," Blondel said shortly. "You have just twenty-

four hours to clear out."

"Now, now, dear boy—"

"If you're as fast on your feet leaving as you were

arriving, that shouldn't strain your capabilities."

"Please, Blondel, don't create unnecessary patterns of

frustration within your already confused psyche—"

"The twenty-four hours have already started," Blondel

said curtly. "You have twenty-three hours, fifty-nine min-

utes, and thirty seconds left."

The Tersh sighed. "I do wish that I could prevail on

you to voluntarily undergo remedial treatment, Blondel.

It would clear up any number of erroneous reaction-pat-

terns—"

"I don't need any lobotomies performed by interstellar

do-gooders," Blondel cut him off. "You'd better get start-

ed giving the orders to pull out."

"Surely you realize the futility of attempting to brow-

beat me," the Tersh said, almost sternly.

"I'm not browbeating you. I'm threatening you. Pack

up and get out, or I'll blow this whole raft to kingdom

come!"

The Tersh smiled sadly. "You must be aware by now

that violence is ineffective against us. Our automatic

protective screens repel all potentially unstable molecules,

both chemical and nuclear. No weapon can enter here.

And if it did, the nature of our defenses is such that any

force applied is merely turned back against the attacker."

"No weapon, eh? What would you say if I told you

there was such a weapon—and that I control it? A weapon

that would make a nuclear bomb look like a toy?"

The Tersh stiffened. "I wouldn't believe you."

"Ever heard of an implosion bomb?" Blondel asked

flatly.

"An .. . implosion bomb?"

"That's right. Implosion bomb."

"No ... I can't say that I have."

"Picture it," Blondel invited grimly. "A five-mile-wide

bubble of perfect vacuum, all rushing in toward a central

core of annihilated matter. The defensive fields will help

the reaction along: they'll be triggered, but in reverse;

instead of bouncing back an attack from outside, they'll

reinforce the collapse from within. In a split microsecond

your whole headquarters will be one big slag bubble,

smashed flatter than a boardinghouse pancake."

"I... I don't understand. ..."

"The end will come in its ghastliest form," Blondel

pressed on. "Picture it, Jetterax: The Ultimate Closure...."

The Tersh made a small yipping sound and shrank

back in his chair. For a moment his pseudohuman limbs

quivered, uncontrolled. His mask drooped to an expres-

sion of idiot vacuity.

"That's the picture," Blondel bored on relentlessly.

"Get out or get flattened. You've got twenty-three hours

and fifty-eight minutes left."

"Ukkkk!" Jetterax croaked. "Ikkkkk! Rrrrmmmmm!"

He shook himself, with an obvious effort brought his

shuddering members under control. His face worked, then

froze into a horrified grimace.

"You'd . . . you'd do this . . . this hideous thing?

To us—who brought you only good, who meant only

kindness and love?"

"Yep."

"But . . . but how could you doubt our benign in-

tentions? Haven't we proved already that we are kindly,

tolerant—"

"The human race refuses to be tolerated," Blondel told

him. "Your visit has had one beneficial effect—and I don't

mean the pretty flowers. In time, we'd have gotten around

to all that ourselves. You've made it pretty clear to us

that there's a Galactic Culture out there and we've been

tossed into it, ready or not. And humanity being what

it is, we'll enter the club as first-class members on our

own efforts—or not at all."

"But think, Blondel! By accepting us as your leaders

you could save generations of heartbreaking effort, cen-

turies of human suffering, millennia of trial-and-error—"

"And end up as Galactic lap-dogs. No thanks, Jetterax.

We'll do it alone. That's the way we are; anything we

haven't worked for, we don't appreciate."

The Tersh straightened. "I see you are in earnest," he

said hollowly. "Your tragic folly will bring nothing but

pain and destruction, where there could have been sun-

shine and joy. Well, then, proceed, my boy! Bring on

your bomb—if your threat was not idle! Blast me and

my faithful workers into nothingness! But even if you

destroy us all it will avail you nothing. All missionary

services expect casualties. A new Tersh will come out to

replace me, and the work will go on. With the help of

your people or without it, we will civilize you in the end.

And one day your descendants will thank us, and rue the

unnecessary violence that preceded the millennium."

"Now, wait a minute," Blondel protested. "I'm not

bluffing! The bomb exists, and it's already planted where

it will do the most good, and—"

"I believe you," the Tersh said mildly. "Your race's

capacity for violence exceeds anything we have hereto-

fore encountered. And such a weapon as you describe

would, in truth, penetrate our shields undetected and

turn our own defenses against us. I concede it all. And

I say—proceed, if you must. A few Monitorial lives are

small payment for the salvation of a savage race."

"But—you were supposed to ... I mean, I'm the one

giving the orders!"

"I defy you, Blondel." Jetterax drew himself up. "We

Monitors, too, know how to die."

"I don't want you to die!" Blondel yelped. "I want

you to surrender and go back home!"

"Never."

"Never?"

"Not ever."

"But in the movies—"

"This, my boy, is not a movie."

Blondel stared glumly across at the alien. His shoulders

drooped. He sighed.

"I should have known nothing Blackwish had anything

to do with would work," he said. He reached in his

pocket, took out the heavy cylindrical implosion bomb,

placed it gently on the table.

"Here," he said. "You win. Get rid of this thing before

it hurts somebody."

"Isn't it marvelous?" Nelda cooed, clinging to Blondel's

arm as they strolled beside a rippling brook flowing across

the crimson-carpeted park that lay among the cherry-

bright towers of the island fortress. "I just knew that

everything was going to work out perfectly, after the

Tersh made such a generous, wonderful gesture!"

"Well, maybe it will help a little," Blondel said glum-

ly. "Putting local human bosses into all the second-

string administrative jobs will at least give us an illusion

that we're running our own business."

"It was just the sort of kind, thoughtful, darling thing

you'd expect from him!"

"Umph." Blondel plodded along in silence for a few

yards. "I guess I'd better be getting back to the main-

land," he said. "After wading around In all this sweet-

ness and light for the past three days, I'm ready for a

change."

"Ace, dear, if only you wouldn't be such an old reac-

tionary about having your synaptic treatment," Nelda

chided, "you'd shed all these primordial competitive urges

and settle down to enrich the garden of your mind with

the heady fertilizer of Monitorial wisdom."

"A head full of fertilizer isn't what I'm yearning for

at the moment." Blondel paused to kick at a pale-pink

daisy nodding in the gentle summery breeze. "I think I'll

find myself a spot up in the mountains somewhere, with

lots of nice trees and a trout stream, and build myself

a little log cabin, and plant a small garden patch, and

start tanning my own hides and making fishhooks out of

antlers, and getting back to nature."

"My God," Nelda said mildly. "Your asociality is bur-

geoning into a full-fledged neurosis."

"I'm not completely asocial," Blondel corrected. "For

example, I had an idea . . . that is, I thought maybe,

ah, you might like to go along."

"Me?"

"Sure." Blondel patted the sleek curve of her rump.

"I-"

Nelda's roundhouse swing caught him squarely across

the side of the head, sent him staggering back, eyes

watering, bright lights whirling before him.

"Keep your lascivious, grasping hands to yourself, Mis-

ter Blondel!" she shrilled.

"But . . . but Nelda! Have you forgotten what a nice,

friendly relationship we had—"

"Fooie." She tossed her head, and even through the

pain tears Blondel admired the graceful line of her re-

modelled throat and chin, the bright haze of her blonde

hair, the vivacious curve of her pouty red lips. "That

was before."

"Yes, but I thought you said that inside, you're the

same poor, lonely, suffering you!"

"New packaging, new rules, Blondel," Nelda said care-

lessly. "Now, you may escort me, if you promise to be

a gentleman."

"Gentleman?" Blondel echoed numbly.

"And if you're a very, very good boy, I may let you

have just one, teensy, little kiss—later."

"Well," Blondel fell in beside her, "you've got to start

somewhere."

"Mr. Blondel!" He turned at an agitated shout from

across the velvety lawn. "Mr. Blondel, come quickly! The

Tersh needs you! Something terrible has happened!"

"It's simply incredible," the Tersh Jetterax wailed,

wringing his imitation hands in a practiced gesture. "In

all my years of experience I've never before seen such an

outburst of insanity! The entire population of the planet

seems to have been seized by a frenzy! Riots are sweep-

ing every center of population larger than a two-family

house! My Monitors have been mobbed, their defensive

screens overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers! Wild-

eyed hordes have beaten them and herded them into im-

provised concentration camps! Everything we've done—

all of our programs, our orientation centers, our retraining

classes—all disrupted; our instructors sent fleeing, our

timetables shattered into total chaos! Why? Why?"

Blondel, reading the reports coming in over the small

TV screen on the Tersh's desk, nodded.

"It looks as though it's a toss-up between disappointed

jobseekers out to fill the new bureaucratic slots, and the

rank and file who resent having some dull clod of a color-

less neighbor put in charge of them. Between the two cate-

gories, I guess they constitute about ninety-seven per

cent of the population. The other three per cent is join-

ing in out of sheer animal spirits."

"Never did I dream that I would see the day when the

rule of peace and good-fellowship would fail," the Tersh

said in a dull, defeated voice. "I was prepared to persevere

through any imaginable setback; but to find the entire

planetary population united as one in a frenzy of total

resistance—this is too much."

"Well, being told what to do by an obviously super-

ior being is one thing," Blondel pointed out. "Taking

orders from the idiot next door is something no red-

blooded American boy could stand for. And I guess the

same thing goes for red-blooded Poles, Welshmen, Masais,

and Lower Laplanders."

"I admit defeat," the Tersh said in a sepulchral voice.

"My Monitors will leave immediately."

"Now, wait just a minute," Blondel said. "Don't do

anything hasty. Let's talk this over first."

"Nothing remains to be said, Blondel. The reports

speak for themselves."

"Send your boys out somewhere to rake leaves." Blon-

del indicated the group of worried Monitors standing anx-

iously by. "You and I need to have another little con-

ference."

"It was the only sensible thing to do," Blondel told

Nelda as they sat together on a marblelike bench over-

looking a superb sunset. "After all, it's pretty obvious

that running a planet is a job that takes certain skills.

Letting amateurs try to handle it is pretty idiotic, when

there's a corps of specialists around willing to take on

the chore."

"Yes, certainly—but I thought you were against all

that! What about your ideas that man's poor little psyche

would wither on the vine if he wasn't strutting around

on top of the heap, bossing everything?"

"Oh, he is, he is." Blondel waved the heavy roll of

parchment in his hand. "The contract clearly spells out

that the Monitors are employed by the human race as

governmental specialists, empowered to do whatever they

find necessary to keep everything running smoothly. No-

body minds listening to advice from experts, as long as

the experts are clearly in an inferior position, liable to

being summarily fired if they fail to please."

"Contract government!" Nelda marveled. "Well, it's

something new. But who authorized you to sign a con-

tract with an extraterrestrial power?"

"I appointed myself Human Ambassador to the Moni-

tors," Blondel said, "and Commissioner of Extraterres-

trial Affairs. I guess that gives me rank enough to handle

the job."

"But isn't that a pretty arrogant usurpation of power?

I mean, why don't you call an election—"

"The contract doesn't call for any more nonsense,"

Blondel said. "From now on things will be done accord-

ing to plan."

"But will people accept that?"

"People only ignore free advice. When they pay enough

for it, they follow it to the letter."

"How are we paying? What have we got that the

Monitors need?"

"They seem to find our art work quite vigorous, in a

primitive, undisciplined way. We'll have to set up a big

new art program, to let all our frustrated geniuses de-

velop their talents; but that's right in line with the pro-

gram."

"My God." Nelda shook her head. "So many changes,

all at once. How are we going to keep our bearings in

such a total cultural turmoil? I have a sudden appre-

hension that we're all going to flip our wigs in sheer

disorientation at the reshuffling of traditional values. . . ."

"Never mind." Blondel tentatively gained another inch

in his campaign to insinuate his arm around Nelda's slim

waist. He tilted her chin up and smiled into her bright

blue eyes. "There are still a few old habits that we

can cling to—purely for reasons of mental health, of

course."

"Purely?" Nelda murmured, and nibbled his ear.

"Well, maybe just a little bit just for the hell of it,"

Blondel admitted, and together they slid off the bench to a

softer resting place among the pink daisies.