Robert Silverberg: Invaders From Earth

“I wouldn’t want one. It would be foolish to jump out of Dinoli into some other place just the same, only not quite as big.”

“You couldn’t get a job anywhere else, either. Dinoli has influence. And he doesn’t like three-year men to quit,” Kennedy said.

“You don’t understand. I wouldn’t get a job. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, Ted. This is my chance.”

“Video? Dinoli has his fingers in that, too. He’ll—”

“No. Not video. Books, Ted.”

For the first time Kennedy realized the glow in Spalding’s eyes was as much that of fanaticism as youth. “Books? You can’t make a living doing books,” Kennedy said. “Could you get along on two or three thousand a year? That’s if you’re a smash success right away, I mean.”

Spalding shrugged. “I’d manage if I had to.”

“Don’t you want to get married? Isn’t there anyone you love, man?”

“There’s a girl I love,” Spalding said quietly. “But she can wait. She’s waited long enough already.”

Kennedy studied the younger man’s slim, curiously intense face. “Have you mentioned this quitting business to anyone else in the agency yet?”

Spalding shook his head. “I was hoping something might come out of that conference this morning. But nothing did.”

“Listen, Dave. Stay here awhile. A week, two, maybe a month. Don’t rush into anything.” Kennedy wondered why he was going to all this trouble persuading Spalding to stay in a place he obviously hated and was ill-qualified for. “Think about this move for a while. Once you quit Dinoli, you’re sunk for good.”

Spalding’s eyelids drooped broodingly. After a long silence he said, “Maybe you have something there. I’ll stick for two weeks more. Just to see if I can bend this contract into a better direction, though. If nothing works out, I’m leaving.”

“That’s a sensible attitude, kid.” The patronizing kid annoyed Kennedy as soon as it escaped his mouth, but by then it was too late.

Spalding grinned. “And you’re an agency man for life, I suppose? Solidly sold on the virtues of Lou Dinoli?”

“He’s no saint,” Kennedy said. “Neither am I. It doesn’t pay to aim for sainthood these days. But I’ll keep my job. And I’ll be able to live with my conscience afterward.”

“I wonder about that,” Spalding murmured.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Spalding said quickly. “Just shooting my mouth off again. It’s an old habit of mine.” He grinned pleasantly and said, “Thanks for sparing the time, Ted. You’ve cleared my mind tremendously. I really appreciate it.”

The gong sounded, ending lunch hour. Spalding touched Kennedy’s arm in a gesture of gratitude and scampered away, dumping his empty tray in the big hopper.

More slowly, Kennedy followed him, and abstractedly let the plastic tray slide down into the washer’s maw. I have no illusions, he told himself firmly. I’m not a fanatic agency man like Haugen. I think some of the things we do are rotten. I think this contract’s rotten. But there just isn’t any percentage in standing up and saying so. The guy who stands up only gets slapped down twice as hard and twice as fast.

He felt a sudden deep surge of pity for Dave Spalding. You had to pity a man whose conscience wouldn’t let him rest. This was no world for a man with a conscience, Kennedy thought morbidly, as he headed back toward his desk to begin sketching out the Ganymede campaign.

May moved along through its second week, and the Steward and Dinoli organization effortlessly made the transition from its previous batch of contracts to the one all-encompassing job they were now committed to. A bright-eyed fourth-level kid named Furman relieved Kennedy of the Federated Bauxite portfolio, and from that moment on he was a full-time member of the Ganymede project.

Watsinski was his immediate superior—the idea-coordinator of the project. Each of the other three second-level men had his own special responsibility in the affair—Kauderer handling space purchasing; McDermott, governmental liaison and United Nations lobbying; Poggioli, opinion sampling and trend-testing. But these were essentially subsidiary enterprises; the central ideological flow was channeled through Watsinski, Dinoli’s heir apparent and the reigning boss of the second-level men. Watsinski’s team consisted of nine: Kennedy, Haugen, Spalding, Presslie, Cameron, Richardson, Fleischman, Lund, and Whitman. These were the men who would sell Ganymede to the people of Earth.

No one, not even Watsinski, seemed in any great hurry to get the project rolling. They spent the first few days just doodling ideas and filing them without even bringing them up for discussion. It was a curiously low-pressure beginning for a Steward and Dinoli project.

There were several target dates to be kept in mind.

Kennedy scribbled them all carefully in his personal notebook as soon as they filtered down from above.

May 21, 2044— first big publicity push

July 8— beginning of transition in public feeling; prepare for unsympathetic depiction of Ganymedeans

September 17— intensification of program; building toward climax of operation

September 22— Corporation will begin to ask U.N. to consider giving it aid in case necessary; underscore through S and D

October 11— Climactic incident will send Corporation before U.N. with a plea for help

October 17 (optimum desired time)— United Nations decision to occupy Ganymede to safeguard the rights of Corporation

Kennedy refrained from letting Marge see the timetable; it was just too neat, too well planned, and he knew what her immediate reaction would be.

It would be pretty much that of Dave Spalding the day the memorandum had been sent around. Spalding’s desk had been moved out of the fourth-level quarters, and now he worked near Haugen and Kennedy. He looked up when the sealed envelope was deposited on the corner of his desk, ripped it open, skimmed through it.

“Well, here it is. The blueprint for conquest.”

Alf Haugen dropped his memorandum to the shining surface of his desk and glanced at Spalding, a troubled look on his heavy face.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

Trouble bristled a moment in the office; smoothly Kennedy said, “Always the cynic, eh, Dave? You’d think the Ganymedeans were going to get trampled into the dust.”

“Well, we—”

“You have to hand it to Dinoli,” Kennedy continued. “He can work out a timetable six months in advance and judge every trend so well we don’t need to amend the schedule as much as twenty-four hours.”

“It’s a trick of the trade,” Haugen said. “Dinoli’s a shark. A real shark. God damn, but I respect that man! And I don’t even care whether he’s listening or not!”

“You really think the third-level office is wired?” Spalding asked anxiously.

Haugen shrugged amiably. “Probably is. Dinoli likes to have a loyal staff around him. There are ways of finding out who’s loyal. But I don’t care. Hell, I’m loyal; if old Lou wants to tune in on what I’m saying, I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Kennedy folded the memorandum and tucked it away; then he left his desk and crossed the floor to Spalding’s. Leaning down with both hands on the other’s desk, he put his face close to Spalding’s and said, “Dave, do you have a free minute? I’m going to Library Deck for a pickup and I need a hand carrying the stuff.”

“Why don’t you ring for a porter?”

The tip of Spalding’s shoe protruded from under his desk. Kennedy found it with his own foot and pressed down hard. “I don’t trust those boys. I’d like you to help me out.”