The Puppet Masters (16 page)

Our stereocast and the follow-ups did not reach those areas. Back in the days of radio it could not have happened; the Washington station where the ’cast originated could have blanketed the country. But stereo-video rides wavelengths so short that horizon-to-horizon relay is necessary and local channels must be squirted out of local stations; it’s the price we pay for plenty of channels and high resolution pictures.

In the infected areas
the slugs
controlled the local stations; the people never heard the warning.

But in Washington we had every reason to believe that they
had
heard the warning. Reports came back from—well, Iowa, for example, just like those from California. The governor of Iowa was one of the first to send a message to the President, promising full cooperation. The Iowa state police were already cruising the roads, he reported, stopping everybody and requiring them to strip to the waist. Air travel above Iowa was stopped for the duration of the emergency, just as the President had urged.

There was even a relayed stereo of the governor addressing his constituents, bare to the waist. He faced the camera and I wanted to tell him to turn around. But presently they cut to another camera and we had a close up of a bare back, while the governor’s voice went cheerfully on, urging all citizens to work with the police.

If any place in the Union was a pest house of slugs, Iowa should have been it. Had they evacuated Iowa and concentrated on heavier centers of population?

We were gathered in a conference room off the President’s office. The President had kept the Old Man with him, I tagged along, and Mary was still on watch. Secretary of Security Martinez was there as well as the Supreme Chief of Staff, Air Marshal Rexton. There were others from the President’s “fishing cabinet”, but they weren’t important.

The President watched the ’cast from Iowa and turned to the Old Man. “Well, Andrew? I thought Iowa was a place we would have to fence off.”

The Old Man grunted.

Marshal Rexton said, “As I figure it—mind you, I have not had much time to evaluate this situation—they have gone underground. We may have to comb every inch of every suspicious area.”

The Old Man grunted again. “Combing Iowa, corn shock by corn shock, does not appeal to me.”

“How else would you tackle it, sir?”

“Figure your enemy! He
can’t
go underground. He can’t live without a host.”

“Very well—assuming that is true, how many parasites would you say are in Iowa?”

“Damn it, how should I know? They didn’t take me into their confidence.”

“Suppose we make a top estimate. If—”

The Old Man interrupted him. “You’ve got no basis for an estimate. Can’t you folks see that the titans have won another round?”

“Eh?”

“You just heard the governor; they let us look at his back—or somebody’s back. Did you notice that he didn’t turn around in front of the camera?”

“But he did,” someone said. “I saw him.”

“I certainly had the impression that I saw him turn,” said the President slowly. “You are suggesting that Governor Packer is himself possessed?”

“Correct. You saw what you were meant to see. There was a camera cut just before he was fully turned; people hardly ever notice them; they are used to them. Depend on it. Mister President, every message out of Iowa is faked.”

The President looked thoughtful. Secretary Martinez shook his head emphatically and said, “Impossible. Granted that the governor’s message could have been faked—a clever character actor could have faked it. Remember the inaugural address in the crisis of ’96, when the President Elect was laid up with pneumonia? Granted that one such ’cast could be faked, we’ve had our choice of dozens of ’casts from Iowa. How about that street scene in Des Moines? Don’t tell me you can fake hundreds of people dashing around stripped to their waists—or do your parasites practice mass hypnotic control?”

“They can’t that I know of,” conceded the Old Man. “If they can, we might as well throw in the towel and admit that the human race has been superseded. But what made you think that that ’cast came from Iowa?”

“Eh? Why, damn it, sir, it came over the Iowa channel.”

“Proving what? Did you read any street signs? It looked like any typical street in a downtown retail district. Never mind what city the announcer
told
you it was; what city was it?”

The Secretary let his mouth hang open. I’ve got fairly close to the “camera eye” that detectives are supposed to have; I let that picture run through my mind—and I not only could not tell what city, I could not even place the part of the country. It could have been Memphis, Seattle, or Boston—or none of them. Allowing for special cases like Canal Street in New Orleans, or Denver’s Civic Center, the downtown districts in American cities are as standardized as barber shops.

“Never mind,” the Old Man went on. “I couldn’t tell and I was looking for landmarks. The explanation is simple; the Des Moines station picked up a Schedule Bare Back street scene from some city not contaminated and rechanneled it under their own commentary. They chopped out anything that would localize it…and we swallowed it. Gentlemen, this enemy knows us, inside and out. This campaign has been planned in great detail and they are ready to outwit us in almost any move we can make.”

“Aren’t you being an alarmist, Andrew?” said the President. “There is another possibility, that the titans have moved somewhere else.”

“They are still in Iowa,” the Old Man said flatly, “but you won’t prove it with that thing.” He gestured at the stereo tank.

Secretary Martinez squirmed. “This is ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “You are saying that we can’t get a correct report out of Iowa, as if it were occupied territory.”

“That is what it is.”

“But I stopped off in Des Moines two days ago, coming back from Alaska. Everything was normal. Mind you, I grant the existence of your parasites, though I haven’t seen one. But let’s find them where they are and root them out, instead of dreaming up fantasies.”

The Old Man looked tired and I felt tired. I wondered how many ordinary people were taking it seriously, if this was what we ran into at the top.

Finally the Old Man replied, “Control the communications of a country and you control the country; that’s elementary. You had better take fast steps, Mister Secretary, or you won’t have any communications left.”

“But I was merely—”

“
You
root ’em out!” the Old Man said rudely. “I’ve told you they are in Iowa—and in New Orleans, and a dozen other spots. My job is finished. You are Secretary of Security; you root ’em out.” He stood up and said, “Mister President, I’ve had a long pull for a man my age; when I lose sleep I lose my temper. Could I be excused?”

“Certainly, Andrew.” He had not lost his temper and I think the President knew it. He doesn’t lose his temper; he makes other people lose theirs.

Before the Old Man could say goodnight. Secretary Martinez interrupted. “Wait a moment! You’ve made some flat-footed statements. Let’s check up on them.” He turned to the Chief of Staff. “Rexton!”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“That new post near Des Moines, Fort something-or-other, named after what’s-his-name?”

“Fort Patton.”

“That’s it, that’s it. Well, let’s not dally; get them on the command circuit—”

“With visual,” put in the Old Man.

“With visual, of course, and we’ll show this—I mean we’ll get the true situation in Iowa.”

The Air Marshal handed a by-your-leave-sir to the President, went to the stereo tank and patched in with Security General Headquarters. He asked for the officer of the watch at Fort Patton, Iowa.

Shortly thereafter the stereo tank showed the inside of a military communications center. Filling the foreground was a young officer. His rank and corps showed on his cap, but his chest was bare. Martinez turned triumphantly to the Old Man. “You see?”

“I see.”

“Now to make certain. Lieutenant!”

“Yes, sir!” The young fellow looked awestruck and kept glancing from one famous face to another. Reception and bi-angle were in synch; the eyes of the image looked where they seemed to look, as if he were actually sitting in the receiver tank.

“Stand up and turn around,” Martinez continued.

“Uh? Why, certainly, sir.” He seemed puzzled, but he did so—and it took him almost out of scan. We could see his bare back, up to about the short ribs—no higher.

“Confound it!” shouted Martinez. “
Sit down
and turn around.”

“Yessir!” The youth seemed flustered. He leaned over the desk and added, “Just a moment while I widen the view angle, sir.”

The picture suddenly melted and rippling rainbows chased across the tank. The young officer’s voice was still coming over the audio channel. “There—is that better, sir?”

“Damn it, we can’t see a thing!”

“You can’t? Just a moment, sir.”

We could hear him breathing heavily. Suddenly the tank came to life and I thought for a moment that we were back at Fort Patton. But it was a major on the screen this time and the place looked larger. “Supreme Headquarters,” the image announced, “Communications officer of the watch. Major Donovan.”

“Major,” Martinez said in controlled tones, “I was hooked in with Fort Patton. What happened?”

“Yes, sir; I was monitoring it. We’ve had a slight technical difficulty on that channel. We’ll put your call through again in a moment.”

“Well, hurry!”

“Yes, sir.” The tank rippled and went empty.

The Old Man stood up again. “Call me when you’ve cleared up that ‘slight technical difficulty’. Meantime, I’m going to bed.”

I
f
I have given the impression that Secretary Martinez was stupid, I am sorry. Everyone had trouble at first believing what the slugs could do. You have to see one—then you believe in the pit of your stomach.

There were no flies on Air Marshal Rexton, either. The two must have worked all night, after convincing themselves by more calls to known danger spots that “technical interruptions” do not occur so conveniently. They called the Old Man about four a.m. and he called me, using our special phones. Those flesh-embedded receptors should not be used as alarm clocks; it’s too rough a way to wake a man.

They were in the same conference room, Martinez, Rexton, a couple of his high brass, and the Old Man. The President came in, wearing a bathrobe and followed by Mary, just as I arrived. Martinez started to speak but the Old Man cut in. “Let’s see your back, Tom!”

The President looked surprised and Mary signaled that everything was okay, but the Old Man chose not to see her. “I mean it,” he persisted.

The President said quietly, “Perfectly correct, Andrew,” and slipped his robe off his shoulders. His back was clean. “If I don’t set an example, how can I expect others to cooperate?”

The Old Man started to help him back into the robe, but the President shrugged him off and hung it over a chair. “I’ll just have to acquire new habits. Difficult, at my age. Well, gentlemen?”

I thought myself that bare skin would take getting used to; we made an odd group. Martinez was lean and tanned, carved smooth from mahogany. I’d judge he was part Indian. Rexton had a burned-in, high-altitude tan on his face, but from his collar line down he was as white as the President. On his chest was a black cross of hair, armpit to armpit and chin to belly, while the President and the Old Man were covered front and back with grizzled, wiry fur. The Old Man’s mat was so thick that mice could have nested in it.

Mary looked like a publicity pic—low angle shot to bring out the legs and careful posing, that sort. Me—well. I’m the spiritual type.

Martinez and Rexton had been shoving push pins into a map, red for bad, green for good, and a few amber ones. Reports were still coming and Rexton’s assistants kept adding new pins.

Iowa looked like measles; New Orleans and the Teche country were as bad. So was Kansas City. The upper end of the Missouri-Mississippi system, from Minneapolis and St. Paul down to St. Louis, was clearly enemy territory. There were fewer red pins from there down to New Orleans—but there were no green ones.

There was another hot spot around El Paso and two on the East Coast.

The President looked it over calmly. “We shall need the help of Canada and Mexico,” he said. “Any reports?”

“None that mean anything, sir.”

“Canada and Mexico,” the Old Man said seriously, “will be just a start. You are going to need the whole world with you on this job.”

Rexton said, “We will, eh? How about Russia?”

Nobody had an answer to that one; nobody ever has. Too big to occupy and too big to ignore—World War III had not settled the Russian problem and no war ever would. The parasites might feel right at home behind the Curtain.

The President said, “We’ll deal with that when we come to it.” He drew a finger across the map. “Any trouble getting messages through to the Coast?”

“Apparently not, sir,” Rexton told him. “They don’t seem to interfere with straight-through relay. But all military communications I have shifted to one-link relay through the space stations.” He glanced at his watch finger. “Space Station Gamma, at the moment.”

“Hmmm—” said the President. “Andrew, could these things storm a space station?”

“How would I know?” the Old Man answered testily. “I don’t know whether their ships are built for it or not. More probably they would do it by infiltration, through the supply rockets.”

There was discussion as to whether or not the space stations could already have been taken over; Schedule Bare Back did not apply to the stations. Although we had built them and paid for them, since they were technically United Nations territory, the President had to wait until the United Nations acted on the entire matter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rexton said suddenly.

“Why not?” the President asked.

“I am probably the only one here who has done duty in a space station. Gentlemen, the costume we are now wearing is customary in a station. A man fully dressed would stand out like an overcoat on the beach. But we’ll see.” He gave orders to one of his assistants.