Robert Silverberg: Invaders From Earth

In less than a minute the room was as it had been before. But none of its occupants were quite the same.

Dinoli leaned forward, his eyes glittering brightly. “I think you begin to see the magnitude of what’s unfolding before us, men.”

Kennedy squirmed uneasily in his contour chair. He saw some of the implications—particularly in that punchline Brewster had tacked on to his little travelogue. The expeditionary geologist’s report shows that Ganymede is exceptionally rich in radioactive minerals.

The way he had said it as a non sequitur made the fact seem almost irrelevant. Kennedy had a good ear for seeming irrelevancies; ultimately, they often turned out to be of critical importance in the case.

Dinoli glanced at the taller and fatter of the two liaison men and said, “Now, Executive Hubbel, will you fill my men in on some of the implications to be drawn from this situation on Ganymede?”

Hubbel coughed ostentatiously. “You’ve seen the existence of alien life on this planet-sized moon. You’ve seen also that Ganymede holds exceptional mineral wealth, which our Corporation proposes to mine in the name of the public good by virtue of our U.N. charter agreement. We’ve gone to considerable expense developing and outfitting ships to explore space, and naturally we’re counting on recouping our expenditures on Ganymede. Partridge?”

The other blinked like a sleepy cougar and said smoothly, “We feel there may be certain difficulties in obtaining mining rights from the Ganymedeans.”

Suddenly Kennedy began to understand. He felt a muscle in his right calf start to quiver.

Dinoli grinned triumphantly. “Here’s where we come in, boys. There might be conflict—conflict with the obstinate Ganymedeans. Some people might call that a war of aggression. Actually, of course, it’s sheer necessity. We need what Ganymede has; the Corporation has sunk billions into opening up space for humanity. You understand this. You’re all clever men. That’s why you work here instead of for a second-rate outfit.”

Partridge said, “Naturally, the people might not sympathize with our plea of necessity. They might think we were imperialistic.”

“This impression would of course have to be counteracted by careful public relations management,” Hubbel said thoughtfully, putting a cap on the whole thing.

“And we’ve been chosen to handle it,” finished Dinoli.

That was it. That was all there was to it.

Kennedy kept his face blank of emotional reaction. The “agency mask,” Marge called it privately. What Marge didn’t know was that frequently the agency mask hid an equal blankness of inner feeling. Kennedy suspended judgment, waiting to hear more.

“We plan an intensive world-wide blanketing,” Dinoli said. “These gentlemen will be working closely with us at all times. Specific target dates have already been set up. There’s a date on which first knowledge of the existence of life on Ganymede will be given to the public—almost immediately, I can tell you—and there’s a terminal date on which the occupation force will have to be put down to assist the Corporation. Between those dates, it’ll be our responsibility to handle the campaign.” Dinoli leaned back, grinning expansively. “Our constitution provides that no more than four men may be second-level at any one time in our organization. However, we’re a flexible group. For the duration of this campaign, those of you who are third-level will draw second-level salaries, without formal advancement in rank. You second-level boys will get salary boosts as well. As for you, Dave Spalding—you’ll draw third-level pay, while officially remaining a fourth-level man. Whether these boosts become permanent or not depends largely on the success of the campaign.” The old man’s eyes traveled down the rows. “Is everything perfectly clear?”

Thirteen affirmative nods.

“Well, then. You four”—he indicated the second-level men—“will serve as general coordinators for the project. The actual intensive work will be carried out by the third-level people, plus you, Spalding.”

Kennedy timidly lifted one hand.

“Yes, Theodore?”

“Sir, what about the projects we’re currently working on? Are they to be carried on as well?”

Dinoli smiled glacially. “This contract takes precedence over any others we may have signed. Your second-level supervisor will discuss with you the advisability of turning your current project over to a fourth-level man.”

“I see,” Kennedy said. That was the end of Federated Bauxite, then.

“If everything’s understood, men, we can call it a day.” Dinoli rose. “We’ll work as a tight little unit on this. And we’ll prove to the Corporation that they haven’t made a mistake in choosing S and D. Won’t we, men?”

Thirteen nods.

“Well.” The single word was a clearcut dismissal.

They filed out slowly. Kennedy left quietly, deep in what to an observer would have seemed to be thought, but which was actually the opposite—mere mindless intense concentration that allowed him to avoid considering a serious problem of ethics. There was time for that later;

What will Marge say? he wondered. He thought of the simple blank-faced creatures from the film, and of Marge’s boundless sympathy for the downtrodden unfortunates of the world. What will Marge say? he asked himself worriedly.

The warm, cheerful, expensive odor of real food filtered through the Kennedy household. Marge bustled about the kitchen, setting the table, while the autochef prepared the meal. They were having shoulder steak, mashed potatoes, garden peas. Nothing on the menu was synthetic; with so many S and D men living clustered in this one Connecticut township, Kennedy could never allow himself the risk of having someone discover he used synthetics. Personally he saw little difference in taste, and an enormous one in price—but prestige was important too, and had to be considered. Third-level men never ate synthetics.

“Supper’s almost ready,” Marge called. She was a brisk, efficient housekeeper.

Kennedy drained the remainder of his pre-dinner cocktail, scratched the cat behind the ears, and flipped a switch on the master control panel of the sound system, cutting out the three living-room speakers and switching the output to the dining area. The playful flutes of Bach’s Second Brandenburg came piping out of the other room, accompanied by Marge’s lilting, somewhat off-pitch humming.

Kennedy entered the bathroom and jammed his hands into the handkleen socket. The day’s grime peeled away. He caught a glimpse of his face, pale, too thin, wrinkles already beginning to form around the eyes even at thirty-two. He wondered if he had always looked this bad; probably not, he admitted.

The handkleen’s gentle purr died away. He shook his hands in the unbreakable drying gesture, pointless but habitual, and crossed over into the dining area. Marge was bringing the plates to the table.

“It’s Spalding I don’t understand,” Kennedy said, abruptly reopening a conversation of an hour before. “Here he is, a fourth-level man jerked up to third just to work on this project, and he’s sour as hell on it.”

“Maybe Dave isn’t interested in the project.”

“Maybe— huh? What does that have to do with it? Any PR man worth his pay can damn well get interested in any sort of project. You think I cared about the good folk of Nebraska when I took on that Bauxite deal?”

“No.”

“Exactly. And yet within two weeks,” Kennedy said, “I was so wrapped up in that project, so identified with it, that it actually hurt to be pulled off it and put onto this. Can you understand that?”