Robert Silverberg: Invaders From Earth

Marge smiled sweetly. “I think I can grasp the general picture. But you say Dave’s not anxious to work on the new contract? There must be some good reason for that.”

“It’s the same reason that keeps him down in fourth-level, when he should be in third.” Kennedy attacked his meat fiercely, and after a moment went on. “He doesn’t have the right spirit. Talent, yes—but that intangible extra, no. And don’t think Dinoli doesn’t know that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dave was put on this thing just as a test— either he delivers the goods now, with third-level responsibilities, or out he goes.”

“I’ve always thought Dave was too sensitive for PR work,” Marge said.

“Implying I’m not a sensitive man?”

She shrugged. “Your potatoes are getting cold, darling. Of course you’re sensitive, but in a different way. You know?”

“No. But drop the subject.” Kennedy had never appreciated his wife’s fondness for Spalding, and regularly tried to avoid the necessity of inviting him to their house.

“I suppose Alf Haugen’s wild with enthusiasm over the new contract,” Marge said.

“Alf’s a company-first man. If they gave him the job of selling humanity on turning cannibal, he’d take it on if they boosted his salary. Naturally he’s enthusiastic. He’ll do anything Dinoli tells him to do, provided there’s a buck in it for him.”

Bach ended. The robot arms of the sound system gently lifted the record from the turntable and replaced it with an early Beethoven quartet. Kennedy was old-fashioned that way; he still bought discs, rather than tapes.

“You haven’t told me what this contract’s about yet, you know,” Marge said quietly.

Kennedy paused, fork in hand. “It’s classified. Top confidential.”

She pouted. “You’ve done classified work before. Have I ever let it spill?”

“This is different,” he said slowly. “This absolutely must not leak. I can’t, Marge.”

They were both silent for a moment, Kennedy knowing that the real reason why he refused to tell her was not that it was classified—he had never kept secrets from her before—but that she would think the project was ugly and brutal. He had always tried to shield her from brutality, even though he knew in some respects she was tougher and more resilient than he was.

“All right,” Marge said. “ Don’t tell me. Marie Haugen will. That blabbermouth can’t keep quiet for—”

“Marie won’t know. Alf won’t tell her.” Even as he said it, he knew how foolish the words sounded. The food in his stomach felt as if it were curdling. He shook his head bitterly. “Marge, can’t you take a straight no?”

“If I have to,” she said, sighing. She began to clear away the dishes. Kennedy could tell from the sudden angularity of her motions that she was angry.

He shut his eyes for a moment, thinking, looking for the strength to tell her. They had been married eight years —were married on the evening of his college graduation, in 2036. He held a Bachelor of Communications from Northwestern, and, finishing first in his graduating class, had eagerly accepted the bid to come East and work for Steward and Dinoli as a fifth-level man.

Eight years, and he had worked up to third-level, with second perhaps just a few years away. He had tried to be perfectly frank with Marge on all matters, and she loved and respected him for it. But now . . .

He was damned either way. There’d be a wedge between them if he refused to tell her, and perhaps a wider gulf if he did. He began to sweat.

“Come here, Marge,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Sit down. I’ll tell you about this new contract.”

She sat opposite him., watching him with her clear, dark-blue eyes that had never needed optical correction of any kind. She looked very grave . . . like a serious eight-year-old, he thought suddenly.

“Well?”

“There’s been a space expedition to Ganymede. That’s one of the moons of Jupiter, you know. It’s almost big enough to be a planet itself. Well, they’ve found people on Ganymede—intelligent people.”

“How wonderful! What are they like? Have you seen pictures yet? Are they—”

“Wait a second,” Kennedy said, his voice dull. “They also found radioactive ores there. The place is literally packed with minerals that Earth needs desperately. Only the natives refuse to permit any mining operations whatsoever. Some tribal nonsense, I guess. So the Corporation may have some trouble. If there’s armed resistance they may have to ask the U.N. Army to intervene in their behalf. It’s a matter of the public good; they’re not using their minerals, and our entire economy is based on them. So S and D was called in to handle a publicity campaign. On the surface, you see, it might look pretty nasty—that the Corporation was greedily aggressive, attacking primitive creatures, and so forth. Naturally we can’t have that kind of publicity. So here’s where we come in, to smooth everything over, to make it clear that it’s a matter of simple need, and—”

He stopped suddenly, catching the expression that flew momentarily across Marge’s face. And was that the edge of a tear in the corner of her eye?

“You dreamed about this last night,” she said in a soft, barely audible voice. “About war. You even dreamed we started it. Funny, I never believed in supernatural things like this. Until now.”

“Marge!”

“You said it would be a terrible war. Innocent people slaughtered. Remember?”

“It won’t be a war, Marge. They’ll just occupy the place. Peacefully. We can’t let all those valuable ores just rot away there, you know.”

She looked at him strangely. “Suppose they object to this occupation. What then?”

“Why—why, how can they? They’re just primitive alien beings. I don’t even think they have explosives, let alone atomics.”

“Not one of you has a conscience,” Marge said. “Except Dave Spalding. He’s the only one that seems to be upset by this. None of the rest of you are. You just see bonuses and status increments.” Her voice was wild and sharp now. “Alf Haugen’s probably planning to trade in his car for a custom model. That’s all he thinks of. And you, Ted—do you think at all?”

She rose from the table, broke away from him suddenly, and ran off into the darkened living room. He heard the cat squeal in surprise and come dashing out of the room, complaining vehemently. It was a very old cat, and disliked noise and motion.

Things were getting out of hand, Kennedy decided. He tiptoed into the living room. In the darkness he made out a dim form lying on the couch that converted each night into their bed. Marge was sobbing quietly.

Frowning, Kennedy sat down on the edge of the couch and let his hand lightly caress the firm muscles of her back.

“Marge,” he whispered. “Don’t carry on this way. It’s just a job. That’s all—just a job. I’m not going to be killing Ganymedeans. I won’t be carrying a gun. No matter what I say or think or do, it’s going to happen anyway. Why take it out on me? Why hurt us?”

The sobbing stopped. He knew she was staring sightlessly in the darkness, battling within herself. Finally she sat up. “All right, darling. I’m taking this whole thing much too seriously, I guess.” She tried to smile.

He leaned over and kissed her. But it was a tense, uncertain kiss. They had not seen the end of this quarrel so soon, he realized unhappily.

It was pretty much of a lame evening. They had tentative plans to visit neighbors down the road, but Marge was puffy-eyed from crying, and Kennedy had fallen into a brooding mood of introversion that made any socializing a dismal prospect for the evening. He phoned and begged off, claiming urgent work that simply had to be done this very evening.