William Tenn - Lisbon Cubed

“I’d like for us to be out of uniform, scuttling about and over each other in some damp, dark place, I’d like to feel your claws upon me, your antennae caressing me, me —instead of this clumsy emotionless disguise I’m wearing.”

He thought. “It—it’ll come. Be patient, darling.”

She straightened up and became businesslike again. “Yes, and I’d better be going. Here’s a list of all our telephone numbers, in case you want to get in touch with any of us. Remember, this operation is to be conducted strictly according to regulations. And that means no phmpffing, no phmpffing at all, except in case of the greatest emergency. For everything else, we use telephones.”

“Telephones?” he found himself echoing.

“Yes.” She gestured to the black instrument on its stand near the bed. “Those things.”

“Oh, those things,” he repeated, fighting the impulse to shake his head hard in a brain-clearing gesture. “Yes. Those things. But no—no, er, what did you say?”

“No phmpffing.”

“None at all?” Surely if he continued to ask questions something would become clear. And sane!

Jane Doe looked extremely concerned. “Of course not! This is a maximum operation.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he agreed. “A maximum operation. I’d forgotten that.”

“Well, don’t,” she advised him earnestly. “Don’t forget. That way, you’ll get into trouble again. One more boner like the one you pulled in Zagreb, darling, and you’re through. You’ll be kicked out of the Service. And then what do you think will happen to our plans together?”

“We’ll be finished, huh?” Alfred studied her. Under all that girl-flesh, he reminded himself, there was a large, black spider working at controls like a mechanic in a power crane.

“Right. I’d never marry outside the Service. We’d be finished. So do take care of yourself, darling, and give it all you’ve got. Stay on the ball. Fly right. Get with it. Rise and shine. Stick to the straight and narrow. Go in there and pitch. Don’t let George do it. Work hard and save your money. Early to bed and early to rise. Don’t be half safe.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, his voice rattling.

“My little crawler,” she whispered intimately and kissed him on the ear.

She closed the door behind her.

Alfred groped his way to the bed. After a while, he noticed that he was uncomfortable. He was sitting on a valise. Absent-mindedly, he shoved it to the floor.

What had he wandered into? Or, to put it more accurately, what had wandered into him?

Spies. Yes, obviously spies. But such spies…?

Spies from another planet. What were they spying on—beauty contests, conventions, plumbers’ fancy dress balls? What were they looking for? What in the world—or rather the universe— could they be looking for?

One thing was obvious. They were up to no good. That omnipresent contempt whenever they mentioned Earth or the things of Earth.

An advance wave of invaders? Scouts preparing the way for the main body? They could be that. But why beauty contests, why fancy dress balls?

What was there of value that they could possibly learn from institutions such as these?

You’d expect to find them at nuclear research labs, at rocket proving grounds, skulking about the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

Alfred decided there was no point in trying to follow their thought processes. They were completely alien creatures: who knew what kind of information they might consider valuable, what might be important to them?

But they were undoubtedly spies sizing up Earth for an invasion to come.

“Filthy little spiders,” he growled in a righteous excess of xenophobia.

And one of them was in love with him. One of them intended to marry him. What was it she had said—piles and piles of eggs? A pretty thought! He shuddered from his neck to his knees.

But they believed he was this other Smith, John Smith. Earth still had a chance. Pure luck had given Earth a counterspy. Him.

He felt frightened, but a little proud. A counterspy.

The first thing to do was to check on this John Smith.

Alfred Smith reached for the telephone. “Desk!”

There was precious little information from the clerk to supplement what he had been given before. John Smith had registered here two weeks ago. He had left one afternoon and not come back. After the usual interval it was assumed he had skipped, since he owed a few days on the bill at the time. His belongings were in the hotel store room.

“No, sir, I’m sorry, sir, but hotel regulations do not permit us to let you go through his belongings. Unless you wish to claim a relationship.”

“And if I did?” Alfred asked eagerly. “If I did wish to claim a relationship?”

“Then it would be necessary for you to establish proof, sir.”

“I see. Well, thank you very much.” He hung up.

Where was he now? This John Smith had registered here, evidently under a previous agreement, as his room was to provide the meeting place for the entire group. Then he had walked out one day and not returned.

Since the disguises were subject to frequent change, when another Smith had registered in the same room, the spies assumed it was their man. They may not even have known of the hiatus between the two Smiths.

What had happened to John Smith? Had he defected to the United States government? To the United Nations? Hardly. There would be an F.B.I, man, a small army unit staked out in the room in that case, when John Smith’s friends showed up.

No, he had just disappeared. But was he dead, killed in some freak accident while crossing a bridge—that would account for his body not being recovered—or was he only temporarily away, working on some newly discovered angle for his interplanetary organization?

And what would happen to Alfred when he returned? The young man on the bed shivered. Espionage groups, he recalled from the novels he had read, tended to a sort of hatchet-man justice. Obviously, they would not let an Earthman with knowledge of their existence and operations go on living.

Then, obviously, he had to get help.

But from where? The police? The F.B.I.? He shivered again at the picture evoked; himself, somewhat embarrassed, stammering a bit, not quite remembering all the details, telling this story to a hard-faced desk sergeant.

An interplanetary invasion, Mr. Smith? From Mars? Oh, not from Mars—from where then? Oh, you don’t quite know, Mr. Smith? All you’re sure of is that it’s an interplanetary invasion? I see. And how did you happen to hear of this on your first day in New York? Oh, four people came up to your hotel room and told you about it? Very interesting. Very, very interesting. And their names were Mr. Cohen, Mr. Kelly, Mr. Jones, and Jane Doe? And your name is Smith, isn’t it? And all we have to do to prove your story is find the address behind one of these telephone numbers, cut open the person in whose name the phone is registered, and find a big black spider inside…

“No!” Alfred groaned aloud. “Not that way—I wouldn’t have a chance!”

He needed proof—tangible proof. And facts. Mostly he needed facts. Who were these spiders, what was their home planet, when were they planning to invade, what kind of weapons did they have at their disposal—stuff like that. And lots and lots of data about their organization here on Earth, especially in America.

How did you get such data? You couldn’t ask—that would be the surest way to expose yourself as a bona fide human with nothing more interesting inside you than a length or so of intestine and a couple of ribs.

But they’d given him an assignment. Something about a plumber’s fancy dress ball. Now, obviously an assignment like that concerned their plans, their organization. Obviously.