During the drowsy period that every gentlemen’s club has in the mid-afternoon we secured the place. By four o’clock everyone present in the building—members, staff, and guests—were with us; from then on we simply processed them in the lobby as the doorman passed them in. Later in the day the manager phoned Des Moines for four more cases.
Our big prize came that evening—a guest, the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury. We saw a real victory in that; the Treasury Department is charged with the safety of the President.
VIII
The jubilation caused by the capture of a high key official was felt by me only as absent-minded satisfaction, then I thought no more about it. We—the human recruits, I mean—hardly thought at all; we knew what we were to do each instant, but we knew it only at the moment of action, as a “high school” horse gets his orders, responds to them instantly, and is ready for the next signal from his rider.
High school horse and rider is a good comparison, as far as it goes—but it goes not nearly far enough. The horseman has partly at his disposal the intelligence of the horse; the masters had at their disposal not only our full intelligences, but also tapped directly our memory and experiences. We communicated for them between masters, too; sometimes we knew what we were talking about; sometimes we did not—such spoken words went through the servant, but the servant had no part in more important, direct, master-to-master conferences. During these we sat quietly and waited until our riders were through conferring, then rearranged our clothing to cover them up and did whatever was necessary. There was such a conference on a grand scale after the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury was recruited; I know no more of it than you do, although I sat in on it.
I had no more to do with words spoken by me for my master than had the audio relay buried behind my ear to do with words it sounded—the relay was silent all this time, incidentally; my phone proper I had left behind me. I, like it, was a communication instrument, nothing more. Some days after I was recruited I gave the club manager new instructions about how to order shipments of masters’ carrying cells. I was fleetingly aware, as I did so, that three more ships had landed, but I was not aware of their locations; my overt knowledge was limited to a single address in New Orleans.
I thought nothing about it; I went on with my work. After the day spent at the club, I was a new “special assistant to Mr. Potter” and spent the days in his office—and the nights, too. Actually, the relationship may have reversed; I frequently gave oral instructions to Potter. Or perhaps I understand the social organization of the parasites as little now as I did then; the relationship may have been more flexible, more anarchistic, and vastly more subtle than I have the experience to imagine.
I knew—and my master certainly knew—that it was well for me to stay out of sight. Through me, my master knew as much of the organization we called the “Section” as I did; it knew that I was one human known to the Old Man to have been recruited—and my master knew, I am sure, that the Old Man would not cease to search for me, to recapture me or kill me.
It seems odd that it did not choose to change bodies and to kill mine; we had vastly more potential recruits available than we had masters. I do not think it could have felt anything parallel to human squeamishness; masters newly delivered from their transit cells frequently damaged their initial hosts; we always destroyed the damaged host and found a new one for the master.
Contrariwise, my master, by the time he chose me, had controlled not less than three human hosts—Jarvis, Miss Haines, and one of the girls in Barnes’s office, probably the secretary—and in the course of it had no doubt acquired both sophistication and skill in the control of human hosts. It could have “changed horses” with ease.
On the other hand, would a skilled cowhand have destroyed a well-trained workhorse in favor of an untried, strange mount? That may have been why I was hidden and saved—or perhaps I don’t know what I am talking about; what does a bee know about Beethoven?
After a time the city was “secured” and my master started taking me out on the streets. I do not mean to say that every inhabitant of the city wore a hump—no, not by more than 99 percent; the humans were very numerous and the masters still very few—but the key positions in the city were all held by our own recruits, from the cop on the comer to the mayor and the chief of police, not forgetting ward bosses, church ministers, board members, and any and all who were concerned with public communications and news. The vast majority continued with their usual affairs, not only undisturbed by the masquerade but unaware that anything had happened.
Unless, of course, one of them happened to be in the way of some purpose of a master—in which case he was disposed of to shut his mouth. This used up potential hosts but there was no need to be economical.
One of the disadvantages we worked under in serving our masters—or perhaps I should say one of the disadvantages our masters worked under—was the difficulty of long-distance communication. It was limited to what human hosts could say in human speech over ordinary communication channels, and was further limited, unless the channel was secured throughout, to conventionalized code messages such as the one I had sent ordering the first two shipments of masters. Oh, no doubt the masters could communicate ship-to-ship and probably ship-to-home-base, but there was no ship nearby; this city had been stormed as a prize-of-opportunity, as a direct result of my raid on Des Moines in my previous life.
Such communication through servants was almost certainly not adequate to the purposes of the masters; they seemed to need frequent direct body-to-body conference to coordinate their actions. I am no expert in exotic psychologies; some of those who are maintain that the parasites are not discrete individuals, but cells of a larger organism, in which case—but why go on? They seemed to need direct-contact conferences.
I was sent to New Orleans for such a conference.
I did not know I was going. I went out on the street as usual one morning, then went to the uptown launching platform and ordered a cab. Cabs were scarce; I thought about moving over to the other side and catching the public shuttle but the thought was immediately suppressed. After a considerable wait my cab was lifted to the loading ramp and I started to get in—I say “started to” as an old gentleman hustled up and climbed into it ahead of me.
I received an order to dispose of him, which order was immediately countermanded by one telling me to go slow and be careful, as if even the masters were not always sure of themselves. I said, “Excuse me, sir, but this cab is taken.”
“Quite,” the elderly man replied. “I’ve taken it.” He was a picture of self-importance, from briefcase to dictatorial manner. He could easily have been a member of the Constitution Club, but he was not one of our own, as my master knew and told me.
“You will have to find another,” I said reasonably. “Let’s see your queue ticket.” I had taken my ticket from the rack as soon as I reached the platform; the cab carried the launching number shown by my ticket.
I had him, but he did not stir. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
“New Orleans,” I answered and learned for the first time my destination.
“Then you can drop me off in Memphis.”
I shook my head. “It’s out of my way.”
“All of fifteen minutes!” He seemed to have difficulty controlling his temper, as if he were not often crossed. “You, sir, must know the rules about sharing cabs in these days of shortages. You cannot preempt a public vehicle unreasonably.” He turned from me. “Driver! Explain to this person the rules.”
The driver stopped picking his teeth just long enough to say, “It’s nothing to me. I pick ’em up, I take ’em, I drop ’em. Settle it between yourselves or I’ll ask the dispatcher for another fare.”
I hesitated, not yet having been instructed. Then I found myself chucking my bag in and climbing inside. “New Orleans,” I said, “with stop at Memphis.” The driver shrugged and signaled the control tower. The other passenger snorted and paid me no further at
tention.
Once in the air he opened his briefcase and spread papers across his knees. I watched him with disinterest. Presently I found myself shifting my position to let me get at my gun easily. The elderly man shot out a hand and grabbed my wrist. “Not so fast, son,” he said, and his features broke into the Satanic grin of the Old Man himself.
My reflexes are fast, but I was at the disadvantage of having everything routed from me to my master, passed on by it, and action routed back to me. How much delay is that? A millisecond? I don’t know. As I was drawing, I felt the bell of a gun against my ribs. “Take it easy.”
With his other hand he thrust something against my side; I felt a prick, and then through me spread the warm tingle of a jolt of “morpheus” taking hold. I’ve been knocked out by that drug twice before and I’ve given it more times than that; I knew what it was.
I made one more attempt to pull my gun free and sank forward.
I was vaguely aware of voices—voices which had been going on for some time before I got around to sorting them out as meaning. Someone was handling me roughly and someone was saying, “Watch out for that ape!” Another voice replied, “It’s all right; his tendons are cut,” to which the first voice retorted, “He’s still got teeth, hasn’t he?”
Yes, I thought fretfully, and if you get close enough I’ll bite you with them, too. The remark about cut tendons seemed to be true; none of my limbs would move, but that did not worry me as much as being called an ape and not being able to resent it. It was a shame, I thought, to call a man names when he can’t protect himself.
I wept a little and then fell into a stupor.
“Feeling better, son?”
The Old Man was leaning over the end of my bed, staring at me thoughtfully. His chest was bare and covered with grizzled hair; he showed a slight paunch.
“Unh,” I said, “pretty good, I guess.” I started to sit up and found I could not move.
The Old Man came around to the side of the bed. “We can take those restraints off now,” he said, fiddling with clasps. “Didn’t want you hurting yourself. There!”
I sat up, rubbing myself. I was quite stiff. “Now,” said the Old Man, “how much do you remember? Report.”
“Remember?”
“You were with them—remember? They caught you. Do you remember anything after the parasite got to you?”
I felt a sudden wild fear and clutched at the sides of the bed. “Boss! Boss—they know where this place is! I told them.”
“No, they don’t,” he answered quietly, “because these aren’t the Section offices you remember. Once I was convinced that you had made a clean getaway, I had the old offices evacuated. They don’t know about this hang-out—I think. So you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I got out of here—I mean out of the old offices and went up—” My thoughts raced ahead of my words; I had a sudden full image of holding a live, moist master in my bare hand, ready to place it on the back of the rental agent.
I threw up on the sheet. The Old Man took a corner of it, wiped my mouth, and said gently, “Go ahead.”
I swallowed and said, “Boss—they’re all over the place! They’ve got the city.”
“I know. Same as Des Moines. And Minneapolis, and St. Paul, and New Orleans, and Kansas City. Maybe more. I don’t know—I can’t be every place.” He looked sour and added, “It’s like fighting with your feet in a sack. We’re losing, fast.” He scowled and added, “We can’t even clamp down on the cities we know about. It’s very—”
“Good grief! Why not?”
“You should know. Because ‘older and wiser heads’ than mine are still to be convinced that there is a war on. Because when they take over a city, everything goes on as before.”
I stared at him. “Never mind,” he said gently. “You are the first break we’ve had. You’re the first victim to be recaptured alive—and now we find you remember what happened to you. That’s important. And your parasite is the first live one we’ve managed to capture and keep alive. We’ll have a chance to—”
He broke off. My face must have been a mask of terror; the notion that my master was still alive—and might get to me again—was more than I could stand.
The Old Man took my arm and shook it. “Take it easy, son,” he said mildly. “You are still pretty sick and pretty weak.”
“Where is it?”
“Eh? The parasite? Don’t worry about it. You can see it, if you wish; it’s living off your opposite number, a red orangutan, name of Napoleon. It’s safe.”
“Kill it!”
“Hardly—we need it alive, for study.”
I must have gone to pieces, for he slapped me a couple of times. “Take a brace,” he said. “I hate to bother you when you are sick, but it’s got to be done. We’ve got to get everything you remember down on wire. So level off and fly right.”
I pulled myself together and started making a careful, detailed report of all that I could remember. I described renting the loft and recruiting my first victim, then how we moved on from there to the Constitution Club. The Old Man nodded. “Logical. You were a good agent, even for them.”
“You don’t understand,” I objected. “I didn’t do any thinking. I knew what was going on, but that was all. It was as if, uh, as if—” I paused, stuck for words.
“Never mind. Get on with it.”
“After we recruited the club manager the rest was easy. We took them as they came in and—”
“Names?”
“Oh, certainly. Myself, Greenberg—M. C. Greenberg, Thor Hansen, J. Hardwick Potter, his chauffeur Jim Wakeley, a little guy called ‘Jake’ who was washroom attendant at the club but I believe he had to be disposed of later—his master would not let him take time out for necessities. Then there was the manager; I never did get his name.” I paused, letting my mind run back over that busy afternoon and evening in the club, trying to make sure of each recruit. “Oh my God!”
“What is it?”
“The Secretary—The Assistant Secretary of the Treasury.”
“You mean you got him?”
“Yes. The first day. What day was that? How long has it been? God, chief, the Treasury Department protect the President!”
But I was not talking to anyone; there was just a hole in the air where the Old Man had been.
I lay back exhausted. I started sobbing softly into my pillow. After a while I went to sleep.
IX
I woke up with my mouth foul, my head buzzing, and a vague sense of impending disaster. Nevertheless I felt fine, by comparison. A cheerful voice said, “Feeling better?”
A small brunet creature was bending over me. She was as cute a little bug as I have ever seen and I was well enough to appreciate the fact, however faintly. She was dressed in a very odd costume, what there was of it—skin-tight white shorts, a wisp of practically transparent stuff that restrained her breasts, but not much, and a sort of metal carapace that covered the back of her neck, her shoulders, and went on down her spine.
“Better,” I admitted, then made a wry face.
“Mouth taste unpleasant?”
“Like a Balkan cabinet meeting.”
“Here.” She gave me some stuff in a glass; it was spicy and burned a little, and it washed away the bad taste at once. “No,” she went on, “don’t swallow it. Spit it out like a little man and I’ll get you some water.” I obeyed.
“I’m Doris Marsden,” she went on, “your day nurse.”
“Glad to know you, Doris,” I answered and stared at her with increasing appreciation. “Say—why the get up? Not that I don’t like it, but you look like a refugee from a comic book.”
She looked down at herself and giggled. “I feel like a chorus girl. But you’ll get used to it—I did.”
“I’m already used to it. I like it fine. But why?”
“The Old Man’s orders.”
I started to ask why again, then I knew why, and I started feeling worse again. I shut up. Doris went on,
“Now for some supper.” She got a tray and sat down on my bed.
“I don’t believe I want anything to eat.”
“Open up,” she said firmly, “or I’ll rub it in your hair. There! That’s a good boy.”
Between gulps, taken in self-defense, I managed to get out, “I feel pretty good. Give me one jolt of ‘gyro’ and I’ll be back on my feet.”
“No stimulants for you,” she said flatly, still shoveling it in. “Special diet and lots of rest, with maybe a sleepy pill later. That’s what the man says.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Extreme exhaustion, starvation, and the first case of scurvy I ever saw in all my born days. As well as scabies and lice—but we got those whipped. There, now you know—and if you tell the doctor I told you, I’ll call you a liar to your face. Turn over on your tummy.”
I did so and she started changing dressings. I appeared to be spotted with sores; the stuff she used stung a bit, then felt cool. I thought about what she had told me and tried to remember just how I had lived under my master.
“Stop trembling,” she said. “Are you having a bad one?”
“I’m all right,” I told her. I did manage to stop shaking and to think it over calmly. As near as I could remember I had not eaten during that period oftener than every second or third day. Bathing? Let me see—why, I hadn’t bathed at all! I had shaved every day and put on a clean shirt; that was a necessary part of the masquerade and the master knew it.
On the other hand, so far as I could remember, I had never taken off my shoes from the time I had stolen them until the Old Man had recaptured me—and they had been too tight to start with. “What sort of shape are my feet in?” I asked.
“Don’t be nosy,” Doris advised me. “Now turn over on your back.”
I like nurses; they are calm and earthy and very tolerant. Miss Briggs, my night nurse, was not the mouth-watering job that Doris was; she had a face like a jaundiced horse—but she had a fine figure for a woman her age, hard and well cared for. She wore the same sort of musical-comedy rig that Doris sported, but she wore it with a no-nonsense air and walked like a grenadier guard. Doris, bless her heart, jiggled pleasantly as she walked.