C Kornbluth - His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"Forget it, sister," snapped Babe. "You have a job to do." She cut the woman out and called in rapid succession as many of the thirty Cosmic Sectors as she could get. One set had fallen into the hands of the Navy, and that was bad, but she cut out before they could have traced it or even guessed what it was. There had been a confused murmur and a single distinct voice saying: "The damned thing's a radio, sir!" before she cut out.

What she had been doing was to locate operatives on the principal planets and stations of the Cosmos; operatives prepared for anything. It had been a job of routing; they bunched together when they weren't under orders. She had to break them up—and she did.

After locating one stubborn female, she heard a man's tread in the corridor outside and as quickly as she could hid the little panel-like affair, which, considering where she was forced to hide it, was not a very speedy job of concealment.

The entire city of New Metropole was jammed into the vast Square of the Living Statues that evening for the ultimate proclamation from Admiral of the Fleet Fitzjames concerning the taking-over and the new order to be established. Though, of course, some historians would say that there was nothing new about it, but that it was a very old order indeed.

There had been erected against the superb backdrop of the living statues a great booth-like affair from which the Admiral would make his speech, a speech to be heard simultaneously by every living human and colonial extraterrestrial alive. There was even declared a temporary amnesty on extraterrestrials; for this evening they might walk the streets—but only to and from the Square.

The booth was, of course, weapon-proof. Voss had been most particular about that.

Crowds had begun to assemble early in the afternoon; if there was to be a new order, they would make sure that they would be its earliest and heartiest boosters. By dusk the press of people had grown so great that there was no room to turn around, let alone draw a weapon, so Fitzjames could have no fear on that score. The only free place was the platform of the booth, flush with the great transparent base on which the living statues moved on in their endless perfection.

When night had fallen they turned on the floodlights normally used to illuminate the statues, removing the color-wheels. The crowd was picked out in glaring detail by the pitiless glow. As far as the eye could see there was a meadow of faces upturned, each sharp and distinct by itself. The statues were in the dark, their sole remaining lights being turned on the booth. The very music had been subdued so that the amplifiers would lose no word of what the Admiral would say. It was a memorable occasion in many unsuspected ways.

Ten o'clock sharp, enter the Admiral, dropping from the heavens in an ornate lighter which was then immediately dispatched. Fitzjames was afraid that his hour of triumph might end tragically should a spanner fall from the craft and crack his skull.

With him, of course, were Voss and the guard of honor.

Five past ten Voss stepped to the mike. "Friends," he said, "it is my proud duty to present to you the man who has liberated us from the yoke of the All Earth Exec—Fitzjames The First!"

There was an astounded hush from the audience, and then a protesting murmur. The wildest fancy they had indulged in hadn't included anything like a monarchy!

Fitzjames The First stepped to the mike as Voss bowed low. He said:

"My loyal subjects, I greet you."

The guard of honor fidgeted. It had been a well-kept secret. The young ensign strolled over to Voss, who was surprised to feel a handgun's muzzle pressed into his ribs.

"Excuse me?" he said strainedly. "Are you sure you're quite sane, young man? Take that thing away."

"I'm not only sane," said the Ensign, "I'm Bartok. When that silly ass fired at me in the lighter he missed, of course. So I switched clothes in three minutes flat, Babe made up my face with the kit that every Intelligence Wing man carries, then we blew the face off the ensign of yours. He was unconscious. A pity."

"—magnificent demonstration of the reversion to childlike faith in the will of Providence and the divine right of kings—" the Admiral was droning.

Voss, a slender, slimy, active man, dived into the shadows as Bartok's attention wavered from him to the speaker.

The Wing Commander dived right after him. "Where are you?" he called into the darkness. "Don't be a damned fool!"

The only answer was a slug zipping past his ear.

"Bartok," hissed Voss from the blackness, "this is your last adventure. I can see you and you can't see .me. Good-bye, Bartok."

There was a sickening crunch from the blackness and a gasp that sounded like a tin can in labor.

"The poor, damned fool," said Bartok. One of the living statues had stepped on the man's head in the course of some intricate pas seul.

Bartok had known it would happen, for the periodicity of the statues was limited to this: in the course of two minutes and forty seconds every square foot of the dancing platform was trodden on at least once by at least one of the two-ton feet of the statues.

Meanwhile the remainder of the guard of honor was vainly trying to fire unloaded handguns—except one slender young man who simply grinned like a cat.

"Okay, Babe," said Bartok to the slender young man. "You do it."

"With pleasure!"

As the Admiral had just got around to the choosing of his palace-planet-

- nothing less than an entire planet would do for his regal estates—he too felt a gun in his ribs. He stopped short.

"Read this," said the slender young man, who was trying to keep from giggling.

Without ado of any sort the Admiral placed the paper on the lectern before him and read in flat, colorless tones:

"I hereby declare that I personally had no such nonsense in mind. It was the work of my secretary. I hereby state that I assume no powers beyond my naval duties.

"General Order to All Officers: any seditious talk of taking over will be severely dealt with by the Intelligence Wing which is—u/p.f—hereby constituted as supreme police authority over the Navy.

"Memorandum to Wing Commanders: you will turn over all insignia of your office to representatives of the Intelligence Wing who will make themselves known to you."

In a very small voice he said: "That is all," and deflated into a chair.

There was a titanic roar of applause from the assembled peoples of New Metropole.

"Darling," said Babe, "if the timing doesn't come off right—if those people I contacted don't show up to the Wing Commanders soon enough, before they recover—!"

"They will," said Bartok. He laughed shortly, like the closing of a heavy lock. "What's funny?"

"They—they—had the guns and we didn't have a thing but ourselves.

Sweet, this is one stunt they'll never try again."

The crowd, still applauding, began to disperse into the night.

"Heavens!" said Bartok mildly, and "Oh, my Lord!" His face wore a curiously complex look, as though he were half stunned with shock and otherwise doubting what he saw. Said Bartok: "They can't do this to us."

He turned decidedly from the transceiver and began to pace his office.

Into his personal mike he snapped: "Send in the number one houri."

Babe MacNeice entered on cue. "What," she asked, "is the matter with our overlord and preceptor?" She studied his face and dropped the smile. "Barty," she said worriedly, "what's wrong?"

"Sit down," he growled, shoving a chair at her. Looking fixedly at the ceiling, he said: "I just got a report from somewhere in the neighborhood of a punky little star named Arided in Cygnus. Babe, we're being invaded. The world is being invaded."