The Puppet Masters

  “No, the ape can’t talk. That’s the hitch. We’ll have to have a volunteer—a human volunteer.”

  When his words sank in and I began to visualize what he meant by them the horror struck me again almost full force. “You can’t mean that. You wouldn’t do that—not to anybody.”

  “I could and I’m going to. What needs to be done will be done.”

  “You won’t get any volunteers!”

  “I’ve already got one.”

  “You have? Who?”

  “But I don’t want to use the volunteer I’ve got. I’m still looking for the right man.”

  I was disgusted and showed it. “You ought not to be looking for anyone, volunteer or not. And if you’ve got one, I’ll bet you won’t find another; there can’t be two people that far out of their minds.”

  “Possibly,” he agreed. “But I still don’t want the one I’ve got. The interview is a necessity, son; we are fighting a war with a total lack of military intelligence. We don’t know anything, really, about our enemy. We can’t negotiate with him, we don’t know where he comes from, nor what makes him tick. We’ve got to find out; our racial existence depends on it. The only—the only way to talk to these critters is through a human volunteer. So it will be done. But I’m still looking for a volunteer.”

  “Well, don’t look at me!”

  “I am looking at you.”

  My answer had been half wisecrack; his answer turned it dead serious and startled me speechless. I finally managed to splutter, “You’re crazy! I should have killed it when I had your gun—and I would have if I had known what you wanted it for. But as for me volunteering to let you put that thing—No! I’ve had it.”

  He ploughed on through as if he had not heard me. “It can’t be just any volunteer; it has to be a man who can take it. Jarvis wasn’t stable enough, nor tough enough in some fashion to stand up under it. We know you are.”

  “Me? You don’t know anything of the sort. All you know is that I lived through it once. I… I couldn’t stand it again.”

  “Well, maybe it will kill you,” he answered calmly, “but it is less likely to kill you than someone else. You are proved and salted; you ought to be able to do it standing on your head. With anyone else I run more risk of losing an agent.”

  “Since when did you worry about risking an agent?” I said bitterly.

  “Since always, believe me. I am giving you one more chance, son: are you going to do this, knowing that it has to be done and that you stand the best chance of anybody—and can be of most use to us, because you are used to it—or are you going to let some other agent risk his reason and probably his life in your place?”

  I started to try to explain how I felt, that I was not afraid to die, no more than is normal, but that I could not stand the thought of dying while possessed by a parasite. Somehow I felt that to die so would be to die already consigned to an endless and unbearable hell. Even worse was the prospect of not dying once the slug touched me. But I could not say it; there were still no words to describe what the race had not experienced.

  I shrugged. “You can have my appointment back. There is a limit to what one man can be expected to go through and I’ve reached it. I won’t do it.”

  He turned to the intercom phone on the wall. “Laboratory,” he called out, “we’ll start the experiment right now. Hurry it up!”

  The answering voice I recognized as that of the man who had walked in on us. “Which subject?” he asked. “It affects the measurements.”

  “The original volunteer.”

  “That’s the smaller rig?” the voice asked doubtfully.

  “Right. Get it in here.”

  I started for the door. The Old Man snapped, “Where do you think you are going?”

  “Out,” I snapped back. “I’m having no part of this.”

  He grabbed me and spun me around as if he had been the bigger and younger. “No, you don’t. You know more about these things than the rest of us; your advice could be of help.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “You’ll stay and watch!” he said savagely, “strapped down or free to move, as you choose. I’ve made allowance for your illness but I’ve had enough of your nonsense.”

  I was too weary to buck him; I felt nervously exhausted, tired in my bones. “You’re the boss.”

  The lab people wheeled in a metal framework, a sort of chair, more like a Sing Sing special than anything else. There were metal clamps for ankles and knees, more of the same on the chair arms for the wrists and elbows. There was a corselet effect to restrain the waist and the lower part of the chest, but the back was cut away so that the shoulders of the person unfortunate enough to sit in it would be free.

  They brought it over and placed it beside the ape’s cage, then removed the back panel of the cage and the panel on the side nearest the “chair” rig.

  The ape watched the procedure with intent, aware eyes, but his limbs still dangled helplessly. Nevertheless, I became still more disturbed at the cage being thus opened. Only the Old Man’s threat of placing me under restraint kept me from leaving.

  The technicians stood back and waited, apparently ready for the job. The outer door opened and several people came in; among them was Mary.

  I was caught off balance by her sudden appearance; I had been wanting to see her and had tried several times to get word to her through the nurses—but they either honestly could not identify her or had received instructions. Now I saw her first under these circumstances. I cursed the Old Man to myself, knowing it was useless to object. It was no sort of a show to bring a woman to, even if the woman was an agent. There ought to be some sort of decent limits somewhere.

  Mary saw me, looked surprised, and nodded. I let it go with a nod myself; it was no time for small talk. She was looking good, as always, though very sober. She was dressed in the same sort of costume as the nurses had worn, shorts and a skimpy halter, but she did not have on the ludicrous metal helmet and back plate.

  The others in the party were men. They wore shorts, like the Old Man and myself. They were loaded with recording and stereo equipment as well as other apparatus.

  “Ready?” inquired the lab chief.

  “Get going,” answered the Old Man.

  Mary walked straight to the metal chair and sat down in it. Two of the technicians knelt at her feet and started busying themselves with the clamps. Mary reached behind her, unfastened her halter and let it fall, leaving her back bare.

  I looked at this in a frozen daze, as if caught in a nightmare. Then I had grabbed the Old Man by the shoulders and had literally thrown him aside and I was standing by the chair, kicking the technicians out of the way. “Mary!” I screamed, “get up out of there!”

  Now the Old Man had his gun on me and was motioning me back with it. “Away from her,” he ordered. “You three—grab him and tie him up.”

  I looked at the gun, then I looked down at Mary. She said nothing and did not move; in fact her feet were already bound. She simply looked at me with compassionate eyes. “Get up from there, Mary,” I said dully, “I want to sit down.”

  They removed the chair Mary had sat in and brought in another, larger one. I could not have used hers; both of them were tailored to size. When they finished clamping me in place I might as well have been cast into concrete. Once secured, my back began to itch unbearably, although nothing, as yet, had touched it.

  Mary was no longer in the room; whether she had left or had been ordered out by the Old Man I do not know and it did not seem to matter. The Old Man stepped up to me after I had been prepared, laid a hand on my arm, and said quietly, “Thanks, son.”

  I did not bother to answer.

  I did not see them handle the parasite as it took place behind my back. There was a rig which I had seen them bring in which appeared to be modified from the remote-handling gear used on radioactives; no doubt they used that. I was not interested enough to look, even if I had been able to turn my head far enough, which I couldn
’t.

  Once the ape barked and screamed and someone shouted, “Watch it!”

  There was a dead silence as if everyone was holding his breath—then something moist touched the back of my neck and I fainted.

  I came out of it with the same tingling energy I had experienced once before. I knew I was in a tight spot, but I was warily determined to think my way out of it. I was not afraid; I was contemptuous of those around me and sure that in the long run I could outwit them.

  The Old Man said sharply, “Can you hear me?”

  I answered, “Of course I can. Quit shouting.”

  “Do you remember what we are here for?”

  I said, “Naturally I remember. You want to ask some questions. What are you waiting for?”

  “What are you?”

  “Now that’s a silly question. Take a look at me. I’m six feet one, more muscle than brain, and I weigh—”

  “Not you. You know to whom I am talking—you.”

  “Guessing games?”

  The Old Man waited a bit before replying, “It will do you no good to pretend that I don’t know what you are—”

  “Ah, but you don’t.”

  “Or, rather, that I don’t know that you are a parasite talking through the body of a man. You know that I have been studying you all the time you have been living on the body of that ape. I know things about you which give me an advantage over you. One—” He started ticking them off.

  “You can be killed.

  “Two, you can be hurt. You don’t like electric shock and you can’t stand the amount of heat even a man can stand.

  “Three, you are helpless without your host. I could have you removed from this man and you would die.

  “Four, you have no powers except those you borrow from your host—and your host is helpless. Try your bonds; then be sensible. You must cooperate—or die.”

  I listened with half an ear; I had already been trying my bonds, neither hoping nor fearing, but finding them, as I expected, impossible to escape. This did not worry me; I had neither worries nor fears. I was oddly contented to be back with my master, to be free of troubles and tensions. My business was to serve and the future would take care of itself.

  In the meantime I must be alert, ready to serve him.

  One ankle strap seemed less tight than the other; possibly I might drag my foot through it. I checked on the arm clamps; perhaps if I relaxed my muscles completely—

  But I made no effort to escape. An instruction came at once—or, I made a decision, for the words mean the same; I tell you there was no conflict between my master and me; we were one—instruction or decision, I knew it was not time to risk an escape. I ran my eyes around the room, trying to figure who was armed and who was not. It was my guess that only the Old Man was armed; that bettered the chances.

  Somewhere, deep down, was that dull ache of guilt and despair never experienced by any but the servants of the masters—but I was much too busy with the problem at hand to be troubled by it.

  “Well?” the Old Man went on. “Do you answer my questions, or do I punish you?”

  “What questions?” I asked. “Up to now, you’ve been talking nonsense.”

  The Old Man turned to one of the technicians. “Give me the tickler.”

  I felt no apprehension although I did not understand what it was he had asked for. I was still busy checking my bonds. If I could tempt him into placing his gun within my reach—assuming that I could get one arm free—then I might be able to—

  He reached past my shoulders with a rod. I felt a shocking, unbearable pain. The room blacked out as if a switch had been thrown and for an undying instant I was jolted and twisted by hurt. I was split apart by it; for the moment I was masterless.

  The pain left, leaving only its searing memory behind. Before I could speak, or even think coherently for myself, the splitting away had ended and I was again safe in the arms of my master. But for the first and only time in my service to him I was not myself free of worry; some of his own wild fear and pain was passed on to me, the servant.

  I looked down and saw a line of red welling out of my left wrist; in my struggles I had cut myself on the clamp. It did not matter; I would tear off hands and feet and escape from there on bloody stumps, if escape for my master were possible that way.

  “Well,” asked the Old Man, “how did you like the taste of that?”

  The panic that possessed me washed away; I was again filled with an unworried sense of well being, albeit wary and watchful. My wrists and ankles, which had begun to pain me, stopped hurting. “Why did you do that?” I asked. “Certainly, you can hurt me—but why?”

  “Answer my questions.”

  “Ask them.”

  “What are you?”

  The answer did not come at once. The Old Man reached for the rod; I heard myself saying, “We are the people.”

  “The people? What people?”

  “The only people. We have studied you and we know your ways. We—” I stopped suddenly.

  “Keep talking,” the Old Man said grimly, and gestured with the rod.

  “We come,” I went on, “to bring you—”

  “To bring us what?”

  I wanted to talk; the rod was terrifyingly close. But there was some difficulty with words. “To bring you peace,” I blurted out.

  The Old Man snorted.

  “‘Peace’,” I went on, “and contentment—and the joy of—of surrender.” I hesitated again; “surrender” was not the right word. I struggled with it the way one struggles with a poorly grasped foreign language. “The joy,” I repeated, “—the joy of…nirvana.” That was it; the word fitted. I felt like a dog being patted for fetching a stick; I wriggled with pleasure.

  “Let me get this,” the Old Man said thoughtfully. “You are promising the human race that, if we will just surrender to your kind, you will take care of us and make us happy. Right?”

  “Exactly!”

  The Old Man studied me for a long moment, looking, not at my face, but past my shoulders. He spat upon the floor. “You know,” he said slowly, “me and my kind, we have often been offered that bargain, though maybe not on such a grand scale. It never worked out worth a damn.”

  I leaned forward as much as the rig would allow. “Try it yourself,” I suggested. “It can be done quickly—and then you will know.”

  He stared at me, this time in my face. “Maybe I should,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe I owe it to—somebody, to try it. And maybe I will, someday. But right now,” he went on briskly, “you have more questions to answer. Answer them quick and proper and stay healthy. Be slow about it and I’ll step up the current.” He brandished the rod.

  I shrank back, feeling dismay and defeat. For a moment I had thought he was going to accept the offer and I had been planning the possibilities of escape that could develop. “Now,” he went on, “where do you come from?”

  No answer… I felt no urge to answer.

  The rod came closer. “Far away!” I burst out.

  “That’s not news. Tell me where? Where’s your home base, your own planet?”

  I had no answer. The Old Man waited a moment, then said, “I see I’ll have to touch up your memory.” I watched dully, thinking nothing at all. He was interrupted by one of the bystanders. “Eh?” said the Old Man.

  “There may be a semantic difficulty,” the other repeated. “Different astronomical concepts.”

  “Why should there be?” asked the Old Man. “That slug is using borrowed language throughout. He knows what his host knows; we’ve proved that.” Nevertheless he turned back and started a different tack. “See here—you savvy the solar system; is your planet inside it or outside it?”

  I hesitated, then answered, “All planets are ours.”

  The Old Man pulled at his lip. “I wonder,” he mused, “just what you mean by that?” He went on, “Never mind; you can claim the whole damned universe; I want to know where your nest is? Where is your home base? Where do your sh
ips come from?”

  I could not have told him and did not; I sat silent.

  Before I could anticipate it he reached behind me with the rod; I felt one smashing blow of pain, then it was gone. “Now, talk, damn you! What planet? Mars? Venus? Jupiter? Saturn? Uranus? Neptune? Pluto? Kalki?” As he ticked them off, I saw them—and I have never been as far off Earth as the space stations. When he came to the right one, I knew—and the thought was instantly snatched from me.

  “Speak up,” he went on, “or feel the whip.”

  I heard myself saying, “None of them. Our home is much farther away. You could never find it.”

  He looked past my shoulders and then into my eyes. “I think you are lying. I think you need some juice to keep you honest.”

  “No, no!”

  “No harm to try.” Slowly he thrust the rod past me, behind me. I knew the answer again and was about to give it, when something grabbed my throat. Then the pain started.

  It did not stop. I was being torn apart; I tried to talk, to tell, anything to stop the pain—but the hand still clutched my throat and I could not.

  Through a clearing blur of pain I saw the Old Man’s face, shimmering and floating. “Had enough?” he asked. “Ready to talk?” I started to answer, but I choked and gagged. I saw him reach out again with the rod.

  I burst into pieces and died.

  They were leaning over me. Someone said, “He’s coming around. Watch him; he might be violent.”

  The Old Man’s face was over mine, his expression worried. “Are you all right, son?” he asked anxiously. I turned my face away.

  “One side, please,” another voice said. “Let me give him the injection.”

  “Will his heart stand it?”

  “Certainly—or I wouldn’t give it to him.” The speaker knelt by me, took my arm, and gave me a shot. He stood up, looked at his hands, then wiped them on his shorts; they left bloody streaks.

  I felt strength flowing back into me. “Gyro”, I thought absently, or something like it. Whatever it was, it was pulling me back together. Shortly I sat up, unassisted.

  I was still in the cage room, directly in front of that damnable chair. The cage, I noticed without interest, was closed again. I started to get to my feet; the Old Man stepped forward and gave me a hand. I shook him off. “Don’t touch me!”