Robert Silverberg: Invaders From Earth

He hung up.

“That was Dinoli. Well, let me get to the main pitch, Ted: we’re using the plan you threw out this morning. We’re going to invent a colony on Ganymede and in October we’re going to have the Ganymedeans launch a savage attack on that colony, and then the Corporation will ask the U.N. to step in and save it. Dinoli wants you to be in charge of developing material on this colony. You’ll have sole charge. In essence you’ll be doing second-level work. You can name your own staff; pick out anybody you like from third- or fourth-level as your assistant.”

“Right now?”

“It would help,” Watsinki said.

Kennedy was silent a moment. He pulled a cigarette from an ignitopak, waited for it to glow into life, and with calm deliberation sucked smoke into his lungs. He thought about Watsinski’s proposition.

They were setting him up in a big way. On the surface, it was a heartwarming vote of confidence in his abilities— but Kennedy knew enough about the workings of Steward and Dinoli to realize that the upper levels never operated merely on the surface alone. They always played a deep game.

They were putting him into a big post in exchange for something—information, no doubt. They knew the Ganymede contract was a hot item, and they wanted to avoid any leaks by weeding out possible defectors like Spalding. Possibly they had their eye on Spalding already and were simply waiting for Kennedy to confirm their suspicions.

Well, Kennedy thought, I won’t play their game.

He thought about possible assistants for a moment more. Haugen, Lund, Whitman—

No. There was one man qualified uniquely for the job. One man who would much rather be writing books than handling the Ganymede contract.

Kennedy stared bluntly at Watsinski’s thin, shrewd face. “Okay. I’ve picked my man.”

“Who?”

“Dave Spalding,” Kennedy said.

For just a fraction of a second Watsinski looked as if Kennedy had kicked him in the teeth. Then control reasserted itself and Watsinski said, in a mellow, even tone, “Okay, Ted, I’ll see what I can do to expedite your request. That’ll be all for now. Keep up the good work.”

That night when Marge asked bim how things had gone during the day, he said shortly, “Pretty fair. Watsinski called me in and said I have a good shot at second-level. They gave me some special work to do.”

She was wearing a translucent skylon dress with peekaboo front. As she poured him his drink she said, “I guess you don’t want to talk about what you’ll be doing.”

“I’d rather not, Marge.”

“I won’t push, dear.” She dropped a pale white onion into the cocktail, kissed him, and handed him the drink.

He took it and said, “Dave Spalding’s going to be working directly with me. And we’re actually going to be handling the core of the whole project.”

It seemed for a moment that Marge looked surprised. Then she said, “I hope you and Dave will get along better now. It would be too bad if you couldn’t cooperate on your work.”

Kennedy smiled. “I think we will. I picked him as my assistant myself.” He took a deep sip of the drink and got it out of the way just in time as the cat bounded into his lap and curled himself up.

He felt relaxed and happy. This was the way life ought to be: a good job, a good drink, good music playing, your good wife fixing a good supper inside. And after supper some good company, an evening of relaxation, and then a good night in bed. He closed his eyes, listening to the jubilant trumpets of the Purcell Ode on the sound system, and stroked the cat gently with his free hand.

Spalding had taken the news pretty well, he thought. Kennedy had met with him at 2:00 o’clock, shortly after confirmation of the new arrangement had come through from Watsinski, and Spalding had seemed interested and almost enthusiastic about the fictional Ganymedean colony they were about to create. There had been no coldness between them, no raising of knotty moral issues, for which Kennedy was thankful in the extreme.

Instead, Spalding had immediately begun producing a wealth of ideas, characters, incidents, jumping at the work with boyish vigor. Kennedy realized that the four years was a considerable gap; Spalding was still just a kid. He hadn’t had time to learn the poised manners of a mature individual. But it would be good for both of them to work together on this project.

Kennedy himself felt a sudden welling of enthusiastic interest. He knew what Watsinski bad been talking about when he referred to the esthetic nature of public relations work. It could be a work of art. He and Spalding would give life to a colony of people, endow them with talents and hopes and strivings, interest the people of the world in their hardships and privations and courage.

The music swelled to a climax. Kennedy thought of old Purcell, back there in seventeenth-century England, hearing this glorious music inside his head and painstakingly jotting it onto a sheet of grimy paper—and then of the artists who performed it, the engineers who recorded it, the whole host of participants in the esthetic act. There it was, he thought: an artistic creation. Something that hadn’t existed the morning before Purcell inked in his first clef, and something that now belonged to the world.

It was almost the same way with this Ganymede colony he and Spalding would design. Men and women would be able to enter into the life of that colony just as he entered into the life of the musical composition being played. It was almost in a mood of exaltation that Kennedy walked into the dining room at Marge’s call.

She smiled at him. “I must have made that cocktail too strong,” she said.

“Three-and-a-half to one, or I’m no judge of proportions. Wasn’t it?”

“I thought so—but you look so different! Warm and relaxed, Ted.”

“And therefore I must be drunk. Because I couldn’t possibly be happy and relaxed when I’m sober. Well, I hate to disappoint you, Marge, but I am sober. And happy.”

“Of course you are, darling. I—”

“And the reason I’m happy,” Kennedy continued inexorably, “is only partly because Watsinski said I stood a good chance of making second-level when Poggioli pulls out. That’s a minor thing. I’m happy because I have a chance to participate in something real and vital and exciting, and Dave along with me. You know what I’ll be doing?”

She smiled. “I didn’t want to ask. You’re usually so touchy about your work when I ask things.”

“Well, I’ll tell you.” The glow he felt was even stronger.

“Dave and I are going to invent a colony on Ganymede, with people and everything.”

He went on to explain in detail what the colony would be like, how he had come to think of the idea, how Watsinski and the others had reacted when he put it forth. He concluded by letting her in on what was really classified material: he told her of Presslie’s concluding suggestion, that the colony would be “destroyed” to serve as provocation for the intended United Nations occupation.

“There,” he finished. “Isn’t that neat? Complete, well rounded, carefully built up. It—”

He stopped. The glow of happiness winked out in an instant. Marge was staring at him with an expression that he could only interpret as one of horror.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Of course I am. What’s wrong?”

“This whole terrible charade—this fake slush— being used to grab the sympathies of the world. What a gigantic, grisly hoax! And you’re proud of it!”

“Marge, I—”

“You what?” she asked quietly. “You were sitting there radiating content and happiness. How could you?”