Get Out of Our Skies! Read online

* * * *

  By the afternoon, Tom Blacker was ensconced in a fair-sized office withvaguely oriental furnishings and an ankle-deep rug. Livia's prettyankles visited it first.

  "Here's an outline I began on the PR program," she told him briskly,dropping a sheet of paper on his desk. "I didn't get very far with it.I'm sure you can add a lot."

  "Okay. I'll read it over this afternoon." He tipped the chair back. "Howabout dinner tonight?"

  "Sorry. Busy tonight. Maybe later this week."

  But it wasn't until Friday, three days later, that he saw Livia Cordagain. He accomplished that by calling her in for a conference,spreading his own typewritten notes on the desk in front of him.

  "Got some rough ideas drafted on the program," he told her. "Thepossibilities of this thing are really unlimited. Granted, of course,that there's money in this picture."

  "There's money all right," Livia said. "We don't have to worry aboutthat."

  "Good. I've put down a list of leading citizens that might be enrolledas backers for anything we might come up with, people who have beenoutspoken about the expense or danger of space flight. We'll keep it onfile, and add to it as new names crop up in the press. Then here's alisting of categories for us to develop subprograms around. Religious,economic, social, medical--Medical's good. There's a heck of a lot ofscare-value in stories about cosmic rays, alien diseases, plagues, zerogravity sickness, all that sort of thing. Sterility is a good gimmick;impotence is even better."

  * * * * *

  Livia smiled. "I know what you mean."

  "Mmm. Come to think of it, we ought to set up a specialwoman's-point-of-view program, too. That'll be worth plenty. Thenthere's the tax question. We'll have to see what we can set up inWashington, some kind of anti-space lobby. Good feature story materialhere, too. You know the stuff--one space vessel equals the cost of twohundred country hospitals."

  "Sounds great."

  "We'll have to plan on press parties, special stuff for the magazinesand networks. I've got a plan for some Hollywood promotion to counteractall this Destination Space garbage they've been turning out. And as fortelevision--"

  He talked on for another hour, feeling mounting excitement for the jobhe was doing. Tom wasn't sure that he liked the aims of Homelovers,Incorporated, but the challenge was enjoyable. Even at dinner thatnight, in Livia's snug apartment, he rattled on about the PR programuntil the girl began to yawn.

  The bedroom was still monochrome. Only Livia had transformed itmagically into powder blue. Tom slept blissfully until morning, and wentinto the office that weekend for sheer love of what he was doing.

  After less than a month, his efforts started producing results. On acrisp December morning, he found the following in his mail:

  _"EARTH SONG" A Screenplay by Duncan Devine_

  _Roger Tenblade, a dashing young rocket pilot in the UN Air Force, yearns to join the Space Expeditionary Force now planning the first landing and colonization of the planet Mars. Despite the protest of his lovely fiancee, Diane, he embarks upon the journey. The trip is fraught with hazards, and the ship is struck by a meteor en route. Every member of the crew is killed, except Roger, who heroically brings the vessel back to home base. However, Roger is exposed to large amounts of cosmic radiation. When he is so informed by the medical authorities, he realizes that he can never make Diane a normal husband. So rather than return to her and ruin her life, he changes his identity and disappears to South America, where he takes a job as a shuttle pilot for a third-class airline._

  _Meanwhile, Diane marries Harold Farnsworth, scion of one of America's wealthiest families ..._

  Tom Blacker chuckled, and slipped the scenario back into the envelope.He marked the manuscript "O.K. for Production," and turned to the othermail.

  There was the prospectus of a television series that soundedinteresting. He looked it over carefully.

  _"CAPTAIN TERRA" Half-hour Television Series written by Craig Comfort_

  _Captain Terra, and his Earth Cadets are dedicated to the principle of "Earth Above All" and have sworn their lives to the preservation of Earth and its peoples, and to the protection of Earth against the hostile aliens constantly threatening the planet._

  _Program One, Act One_

  _Bobby, Captain Terra's youthful aide, is attacked one day by a strange creature which he describes as half-man, half-snake. He reports the incident to Captain Terra, who calls a special session of his Earth Patrol to determine how best to deal with this enemy ..._

  Tom read the prospectus through, and then dictated a letter to itsproducers to call for an appointment.

  At the bottom of the mail pile, he found an enthusiastic letter from atheatrical producer named Homer Bradshaw, whom he had dealt with brieflyduring his career at Ostreich and Company.

  _Dear Tom,_

  _Great to hear about your new connection! Have a fabulous gimmick that ought to be right down your alley. Am thinking of producing a new extravaganza entitled: "Be It Ever So Humble."_

  _This will be a real classy show, with plenty of chorus line and top gags. We plan to kid the pants off this spaceman business, until those bright boys in the glass hats cry uncle. I've already lined up James Hocum for the top banana, and Sylvia Crowe for the female lead. You know Sylvia, Tom; she'll make space flight sound about as chic as a debutante's ball on the Staten Island Ferry. This is the way to do the job, Tom--laugh 'em out of it._

  _If you're interested in a piece of this, you can always reach me at ..._

  He was about to call it a day at five-thirty, when he got a visiphonecall from John Andrusco. When he walked into the immense office at theother end of the floor, he saw a glassy-eyed man standing at Andrusco'sdesk, twirling his hat with nervous fingers.

  "Tom," Andrusco said cheerfully, "want you to meet somebody. This isSergeant Walt Spencer, formerly of the UN Space Commission."

  Tom shook the man's hand, and he could feel it trembling in his own.

  "I called Walt in here specially, thanks to that memo you sent me, Tom.Great idea of yours, about talking to some of the boys who've actuallybeen in space. Walter here's willing to cooperate a hundred percent."

  "That's fine," Tom said uneasily.

  "Thought you two ought to get together," Andrusco said, reaching for hishat. "Think he can help a lot, Tom. Talk it over."

  "Well--suppose we have a drink, Sergeant? That fit your plans allright?"

  "Suits me," the man said, without emotion.

  They went down in the elevator together, and slid into a red-leatherbooth in the Tuscany Bar in the base of the building. The sergeantordered a double Scotch, and gulped it with the same respect you givewater.

  "So you've been in space," Tom said, looking at him curiously. "Musthave been quite an experience."

  "Yeah."

  "Er--I take it you've left the service."

  "Yeah."

  Tom frowned, and sipped his martini. "How many trips did you make,Sergeant?"

  "Just one. Reconnaissance Moon Flight Four. About six years ago. Youmust have read about it."

  "Yes," Tom said. "Sorry."

  The man shrugged. "Things happen. Even on Earth, things happen."

  "Tell me something." Tom leaned forward. "Is it true about--" He paused,embarrassed. "Well, you hear a lot of stories. But I understand some ofthe men on that flight, the ones who got back all right, had children.And--well, you know how rumors go--"

  "Lies," Spencer said, without rancor. "I've got two kids myself. Both of'em normal."

  "Oh." Tom tried to hide his disappointment behind the cocktail glass. Itwould have made great copy, if he could have
proved the truth of the oldrumor about two-headed babies. But what _could_ Sergeant Spencer do forthe PR program? Andrusco must have had something in mind.

  * * * * *

  He asked him point-blank.

  "It's like this," the man said, his eyes distant. "Since I quit theservice, I haven't been doin' so good. With jobs, I mean. And Mr.Andrusco--he said he'd give me five thousand dollars if I'd--help youpeople."

  "Did Mr. Andrusco describe this help?"

  "Yeah. He wants me to do a story. About the kid my wife had. The firstkid."

  "What about the first kid?"

  "Well, she died, the first kid did. In childbirth. It was somethingthat happens, you know. My wife's a little woman; the baby wassmothered."

  "I see. And what kind of story do you want to tell?"

  "It's not my idea." A hint of stubbornness glimmered in his dull eyes."It's that Andrusco guy's. He wants me to tell how the baby was borna--mutant."

  "What?"

  "He wants me to release a story saying the baby was a freak. The kid wasborn at home, you see. The only other person who saw her, besides me andmy wife, was this doctor we had. And he died a couple of years back."

  Tom slumped in his chair. This was pushing public relations a littlefar.

  "Well, I dunno," he said. "If the baby was really normal--"

  "It was normal, all right. Only dead, that's all."

  Tom stood up. "Okay, Sergeant Spencer. Let me think it over, and I'llgive you a buzz before the end of the week. All right?"

  "Anything you say, Chief."

  * * * * *

  In the morning, Tom Blacker went storming into John Andrusco's plushoffice.

  "Now look, Mr. Andrusco. I don't mind slanting a story a little far. Butthis Spencer story of yours is nothing but a hoax."

  Andrusco looked hurt. "Did he tell you that? How do you like thatnerve?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why, that story's as genuine as gold. We've known about the freak birthfor a long time. Cosmic rays, you know. Those men on that reconnaissanceflight really got bombarded."

  Tom wasn't sure of himself. "You mean, it's true?"

  "Of course it is! As a matter of fact, we've got a photograph of thedead baby, right after it was delivered. The doctor who attended Mrs.Spencer took it without their knowledge, as a medical curiosity. He soldit to us several years ago. We've never used it before, because we knewthat the Spencers would just deny it. Now that Walt's willing tocooperate ..."

  "Can I see the photo?"

  "Why, certainly." He opened the top drawer and handed a glossy printacross the desk. Tom looked at it, and winced.

  "Scales!" he said.

  "Like a fish," Andrusco said sadly. "Pretty sad, isn't it?" He lookedout of the window and sighed cavernously. "It's a menacing world upthere...."

  The rest of the day was wasted. Tom Blacker's mind wasn't functioningright.

  He told Livia about it at lunch.

  Livia Cord continued eating, chewing delicately on her food withoutflexing a muscle or wincing an eyebrow.

  * * * * *

  On the Third of April, the story of Sergeant Walter Spencer's first-bornmonster broke in newspapers, magazines, and telecasts across thecountry. It was a five-year-old story, but it carried too muchsignificance for the space-minded present to be ignored.

  Two days later, Sergeant Spencer, 32, and his wife, Laura, 30, werefound dead of asphyxiation in their new home in Greenwich, Connecticut.The cause of death was listed as suicide.

  Tom Blacker didn't hear the news until a day after it happened. He wasin Washington, setting up a series of meetings with members of a Housegroup investigating space flight expenditures. When he returned by'copter that evening, he found Police Commissioner Joe Stinson waitingfor him in Tom's own favorite chair.

  The square, heavy-jowled face was strangely calm.

  "Long time no see," he said mildly. "You've been a busy man lately, Mr.Blacker."

  "Hello, Mr. Stinson. Won't you come in?"

  "I'm in," the commissioner shrugged. "Landlord let me wait here. It'schilly outside. Do you want the preliminaries, or should we have themain bout?"

  "It's about Spencer, isn't it?" Tom built himself a long drink. "I heardabout it on the 'copter radio, flying in. Too bad. He was a nice guy; Inever met his wife."

  "But you knew him, right? In fact, you and the sergeant did a lot ofbusiness together?"

  "Look, Mr. Stinson. You know what kind of job I'm trying to do. It's nosecret. Spencer's story happened to gear in nicely with our publicrelations effort. And that's all."

  "Maybe it is." The commissioner's eyes hardened. "Only some of us aren'tsatisfied. Some of us are kinda restless about the coroner's verdict."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. It's fishy, you know? Nice young couple buys a new house,then turns on the gas. Leave behind a couple of kids, too. Boys, niceboys."

  "I couldn't feel worse about it," Tom said glumly. "In a way, I canalmost feel responsible ..."

  "How?"

  "I dunno. They were perfectly willing to release that story about theirfirst-born. But maybe when they actually saw it in print, they couldn'tstand the spotlight--"

  "And that's your theory?"

  "Yes. But I hope I'm wrong, Mr. Stinson. For my own sake."

  The commissioner drew a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket.

  "Let me read you something. This hasn't been released to the press, andmaybe it won't be. Interested?"

  "Of course."

  "It's a letter. A letter that was never mailed. It's addressed to TomBlacker, care of Homelovers, Incorporated, 320 Fifth-Madison, New York."

  "What?" Tom reached for it.

  "Uh-uh. It was never mailed, so it's not your property. But I'll read itto you." He slipped on a pair of bifocals.

  _Dear Mr. Blacker. I've been trying to reach you all week, but you've been out of town. Laura and I have just seen the first news story about our baby, and we're just sick about it. Why didn't you tell us about that photograph you were going to print? If we had known about that, we never would have consented to doing what you wanted. My wife never gave birth to that damned thing, and I don't care who knows it. I've called Mr. Andrusco to tell him that we don't want any part of this business any more. I'd send you back every penny of the five thousand dollars, only we've already spent half of it. I'm going to call the newspapers and tell them everything ..._

  The commissioner paused. "It goes on for another half page. But no usereading any more. I'd like a reaction, Mr. Blacker. Got one handy?"

  Tom was on his feet.

  "I don't believe it!" His fist thudded into his palm. "The letter's afake!"

  "That's easy to prove, Mr. Blacker."

  "But the picture was genuine! Don't you see that? Sure, we paid Spencersomething for his cooperation. But the picture was the real thing, takenby his family doctor. You've heard what the medical authorities saidabout it."

  Stinson said nothing. Then he got up slowly and walked to the door.

  "Maybe so. But you're missing the point I want to make, Mr. Blacker.This letter was dated the same day as the Spencer suicides. Does itsound to you like the kind of thing a man would put in a suicide note?Think it over."

  Tom looked at the door the commissioner closed behind him.

  "No," he said aloud. "It doesn't."

  * * * * *

  Tom didn't go to the Homelovers building the next morning. He proceededdirectly to the Lunt Theatre, where Homer Bradshaw was putting _Be ItEver So Humble_ into rehearsal.

  He was in no mood for the theatre, but the appointment had been made toolong before. When he came through the doors of the theatre, Homer leapedhalfway up the aisle to greet him, and pounded his back like a long-lostpal. Actually, he had met the producer only twice before.

  "Great to have you here, Tom!" he sai
d enthusiastically. "Great! We'vejust been putting things together. Got some red-hot numbers we hadwritten specially for us. Wait 'til you hear 'em!" He waved towards thetwo shirtsleeved men hovering around the on-stage piano. "You knowJulie, don't you? And Milt Steiner? Great team! Great team!"

  They took seats in the sixth row while Homer raved about the forthcomingproduction that was going to cost Homelovers, Incorporated some hundredthousand dollars. A dozen shapely girls in shorts and leotards werekicking their heels lackadaisically in the background, and a stout manwith a wild checkered suit was wandering around the stage with an unlitcigar in his hand, begging the stagehands for a match.

  "Hey, fellas!" Homer Bradshaw called to the men at the piano. "Runthrough that _Gypsy_ number for Mr. Blacker, huh?"

  They came to life like animated dolls. The tallest of the pair steppedin front of the stage while the other thumped the piano keys. The tallone sang in a loud nasal voice, with an abundance of gestures.

  "_Gypsy! Gypsy! Why do you have to be a gypsy? Life could be so ipsy-pipsy Staying home and getting tipsy Safe on Earth with me!_"

  He swung into the second chorus while Tom Blacker kept his face fromshowing his true opinion of the specialty number. The next offeringdidn't change his viewpoint. It was a ballad. A blonde girl in clingingblack shorts sang it feelingly.

  "_There's a beautiful Earth tonight With a beautiful mellow light Shining on my spaceman in the moon. Why did he leave me? Only to grieve me? Spaceman, come home to me soon ..._"

  "Did you like it? Did you like it?" Homer Bradshaw said eagerly.

  "It'll do fine," Tom Blacker said, with his teeth clenched.

  * * * * *

  When he left the theatre, Tom visiphoned the office to tell Livia thathe was taking the rest of the day off. But he found that Livia herselfwas spending the day in her two-room apartment downtown. He hung up, anddecided that he had to talk to her about Stinson's visit. He hopped acab, and gave him Livia's address.

  John Andrusco answered the door.

  "Well! Thought you were at the office, Tom?"

  He found himself glaring at the lean-jawed executive. What was Andruscodoing here?

  "I've been over at the theatre," Tom explained. "Watching that musicalwe're spending all that dough on." He stepped inside. "I might say thesame about you, Mr. Andrusco."

  "Me? Oh, I just came to talk over some business with Livia. Poor kid'snot feeling so hot, you know."

  "No, I didn't." He dropped his hat familiarly on the contour couch, withalmost too much deliberation. "Livia in bed?"

  "No." The girl appeared at the door of the bedroom, wrapping apowder-blue negligee around her. "What brings you here, Tom?"

  "I--I wanted to talk something over with you. Now that you're here, Mr.Andrusco, we can _all_ talk it over."

  "What's that?" Andrusco made himself at home at the bar.

  "It's about Walt Spencer. I had a visitor last night, the policecommissioner. He showed me a letter that Spencer had written just beforehe--before he died. It was addressed to me, only Spencer had nevermailed it."

  Andrusco looked sharply at the girl. "And what was in this letter?"

  "He was upset," Tom said. "He wanted to back out of the deal we made.Said the picture was a phoney. But the thing that's bothering the policeis the _tone_ of the damned letter. It just doesn't sound like a manabout to kill himself and his wife--"

  "Is that all?" Livia took the drink from Andrusco's hand and sipped atit. "I thought it was something serious."

  "It is serious!" Tom looked sternly at her. "I want to know something,Mr. Andrusco. You told me that picture was genuine. Now I want you totell me again."

  The man smiled, with perfect teeth. "How do you mean, genuine? Is it apicture of a genuine infant with scales?"

  "Yes."

  "I assure you. In that respect, the picture is absolutely genuine."

  Tom thought it over.

  "Wait a while. Was the story genuine, too?"

  John Andrusco smiled. He sat on the sofa, and rubbed the palms of hishands over his knees. Then he looked towards Livia Cord and said:

  "Well--I didn't think we could hold out on our clever Mr. Blacker aslong as we have. So we might as well enlist his cooperation fully. Eh,Livia?"

  "I think so." The girl smiled, her teeth sharp.

  "What does that mean?" Tom said.

  "The infant," John Andrusco answered slowly, "was not Walter Spencer'schild. That, I'm afraid, was nothing more than a little white lie."

  Tom looked confused.

  "Then what was it?"

  Livia finished her drink.

  "It was my child."

  * * * * *

  The man and the woman, whose grins now seemed permanently affixed totheir faces, were forced to wait a considerable amount of time beforeTom Blacker was both ready and able to listen to their explanation.

  Livia did most of the talking.

  "You'll probably be horrified at all this," she said, with a trace ofamusement around her red mouth. "Particularly since you and I havebeen--" She paused, and looked towards Andrusco with a slight lift ofher shoulder. "Well, you know. But you needn't feel too squeamish, Tom.After all, I was born and raised on Earth. I am, you might say, anhonorary Earth woman."

  Tom's eyes bulged at her.

  "This civilization from which my husband and I claim ancestry is perhapsno older than your own. Unfortunately, we were not blessed with aplanetary situation as agreeable as Earth's. Our sun is far feebler, theorbital paths of our moons act drastically upon our waters, causinggenerations of drought and centuries of flood ..."

  "What are you talking about?" Tom said hoarsely.

  "I speak of home," Livia Cord said. And her eyes gleamed.

  "Antamunda is the name we give it," John Andrusco said cordially. "Aworld very much like your own in size and atmosphere, Mr. Blacker. Buttragically, a world whose usefulness has been gradually coming to anend. Our ancestors, who were scientists of much ability, foresaw thissome hundreds of years ago. Since that time, they have been seeking asolution to the problem."

  "I don't believe this!"

  "We have," Livia said carefully, "excellent evidence."

  "Some five hundred years ago," Andrusco continued, "our peopledespatched an exploratory space vessel. A home-hunting force, seeking torelocate the surviving members of our race. It was a long, tryingodyssey, but it finally culminated in the selection of a new home. Ineedn't tell you that the home is in your own solar system."

  Tom shot to his feet. "You mean Earth? You mean you want to take overhere--"

  Andrusco looked shocked. "Certainly not! What a violent thought, Mr.Blacker!"

  "The planet you call Mars," Livia said coolly, "was the selecteddestination. A planet with only limited facilities for the support oflife. But a planet even more like our own dying world than Earth, Mr.Blacker. So you needn't cry havoc about alien invaders." She laughedsharply.

  "Then what are you doing here?"

  "Merely waiting," Andrusco said. "We are the offspring of the survivingmembers of the expeditionary force from Antamunda, placed here on Earthas a vanguard of the immigration that will shortly take place to thissystem. But your own world is in no danger, Mr. Blacker. That you mustbelieve. Physically, our people are not your equals. Scientifically, weare advanced in certain fields and shamefully backwards in others.Biologically--" He frowned. "This is our greatest weakness. To theAntamundans, your breeding capacity is nothing short of grotesque." Hishandsome lip curled. He enjoyed watching Tom's reaction.

  * * * * *

  Tom swallowed hard. "How long have you been here?"

  "Some four generations have been born here. Our duty has been merely toawait the arrival of our people. But in the last fifty years, we foundourselves faced with another obligation. It was that obligation whichbrought about the formation of Homelovers, Incorporated."

&nbs
p; "I don't understand."

  "We had underestimated the science of Earth. Our own necessity drove ustowards the perfection of space flight. Earth had no such urgency. Butnow--" Livia looked mournful. "Now we were faced with the possibilitythat Mars would soon be a colony of your own planet, before our peoplehad a chance to make it their rightful home. You can see theconsequences of that. A conflict of interests, a question of territorialrights. Even the possibility of an interplanetary war--"

  "War!"

  "A possibility greatly to be abhorred," Andrusco said. "And one we weresure we could eliminate, if we could merely _delay_ the colonization ofMars."

  "Don't you see?" Livia said earnestly. "If we could make Mars ournatural home, then the people of Earth would come to us as friendlyvisitors--or invaders, whichever they prefer. But if we arrived toolate-- No, Tom. We feel that it is imperative--to the peace of _both_our worlds--that Antamunda reach Mars first."

  "Then it's a race!" Tom was bewildered.

  "You may call it that. But a race we are determined to win. And we_will_ win!"

  Tom thought of another question.

  "The infant," he said. "The creature with scales ..."

  "It was mine," the girl said sadly. "Born to John and me some ten yearsago. Unfortunately, it did not live. And while your Earth eyes mayconsider it a creature--" She drew herself up proudly. "It was aperfectly formed Antamundan child."

  Tom gaped at her.

  "No," she said, answering the question in his gaze. "You are looking atus as we are. We lose our scales after our infancy, when our mouths areformed ..."

  After a while, Tom asked:

  "And what about Spencer?"

  "Unfortunate," the man said. "His betrayal to the press would have doneus incalculable harm. It was necessary to do what we did."

  "Then you did kill them?"

  Livia turned her head aside.

  "And you think I'll stand for that?" Tom said.

  "Perhaps not," Andrusco said. "But frankly--I don't really know what youcan do about it. Except, of course, repeat this explanation to theauthorities. You're free to do that, Tom. Any time at all." He smiled,slyly.

  "You think they won't believe me?"

  Livia came over to Tom's chair, and slithered one arm around hisshoulder.

  "Why, Tom, darling. Are you so sure that _you_ believe it?"

  * * * * *

  He left the apartment some ten minutes later, and took a cab to 320Fifth-Madison. It was almost five o'clock, and the steel-and-glasscylinder was emptying rapidly of its Homelovers employees. He watchedthe stream of ordinary people stepping off the elevators: the youngsecretaries with their fresh faces and slim figures, laughing at officeanecdotes and sharing intimate confidences about office bachelors; thesmooth-cheeked young executives, in their gray and blue suits, grippingwell-stocked brief cases, and striding energetically down the lobby,heading for the commuter trains; the paunchy, dignified men with theirgray temples and gleaming spectacles, walking slowly to the exits,quoting stock prices and planning golf dates.

  The crowd eddied about him like a battling current as he made his waytowards the elevators, and their images swam before his face inpink-and-white blurs. And for one terrible moment, in the thickestvortex of the crowd, he began to imagine that the faces were meltingbefore his eyes, the mouths disappearing into the flesh, and below thewhite collars and black-knit ties and starched pink blouses appeared ashimmering collection of ugly scales.

  He shuddered, and stepped into an empty car, punching the button thatshot him to the executive floor of the Homelovers Building.

  In his office, he switched on the visiphone and made contact with asquare-faced man who frowned mightily when he recognized his caller.

  "What do you want?" Stinson said.

  "I have to see you," Tom told him. "I learned something this afternoon,about Walt Spencer. I don't know whether you'll believe it or not, but Ihave to take that chance. Will you talk to me?"

  "All right. But we'll have to make it down here."

  "I'll be there in an hour. I want to organize a few things first. Thenwe can talk."

  Tom switched off, and began to empty his desk. He found nothing in theofficial communications of the Homelovers that would substantiate hisstory, but he continued to gather what information he could about the PRprogram.

  He was just clicking the locks on his brief case, when a gray-hairedwoman with a pencil thrust into her curls popped her head in thedoorway.

  "Mr. Blacker?" she smiled. "I'm Dora, Mr. Wright's secretary. Mr. Wrightwants to know if you'll stop in to see him."

  "Wright?" Tom said blankly.

  "The treasurer. His office is just down the hall. He's very anxious tosee you, something about the expense sheets you turned in last week."

  Tom frowned. "Why don't I see him in the morning?"

  "It won't take but a minute."

  "All right."

  He sighed, picked up the brief case, and followed Dora outside. Sheshowed him the door of an office some thirty paces from his own, and heentered without knocking.

  A frail man, with a bald head and a squiggly moustache, stood up behindhis desk.

  "Oh, dear," he said nervously. "I'm terribly sorry to do this, Mr.Blacker. But I have my instructions."

  "Do what?"

  "Oh, dear," Mr. Wright said again.

  * * * * *

  He took the gun that was lying in his out-box, and fired it. Histrembling hand sent the bullet spanging into the wooden frame of thedoor. Tom dropped to the thick carpet, and then scrambled to the tallcredenza set against the right wall of the office. He shoved it asidewith his left hand and ducked behind it. The treasurer came out frombehind his desk, still muttering to himself.

  "Please," he said in anguish, "this is very painful for me!"

  He fired the gun again, and the bullet tore a white hole in the wallabove Tom's head.

  "Don't be so difficult," the little man pleaded. "Sooner or later--"

  But Tom insisted upon being difficult. His fingers closed around a loosevolume of New York State Tax Laws, and jiggled it in readiness. When thelittle treasurer came closer, he sprung from hiding and hurled the book.It slammed against Wright's side, and surprised him enough to send thearm holding the weapon into the air. That was the advantage Tom wanted.He leaped in a low-flying tackle, and brought Wright to the carpet. Thenhe was on top of the little man, grappling for the gun. Tom fought hardto get the gun.

  He got it, but not before it was fired again.

  Tom looked down at the widening stain that was marring the smoothtexture of the carpet and was horrified. He bent down over the frailfigure, lifting the bald head in his hands.

  "Mr. Wright!"

  The treasurer groaned. "Sorry," he said. "Instructions, Mr. Blacker ..."

  "From whom? Andrusco?"

  "Yes ... Your message reported from switchboard ... had orders ..."

  "Is it true?" Tom said frantically. "About Antamunda? Is the storytrue?"

  The little man nodded. Then he lifted one hand feebly towards the desk."Gary," he said. "Tell Gary ..."

  Tom looked in the direction of the gesture, and saw the back of a framedphotograph.

  When he turned to the treasurer again, the thin lips had stopped moving.

  He lowered the body to the floor and went to the desk. The photo wasthat of a young man with stiff-bristled blond hair and a rugged smile.The inscription read:

  "_To Pop, with deep affection, Gary._"

  Tom shook his head, wonderingly. Were these creatures so very different?

  * * * * *

  When Tom stepped out on Fifth-Madison some ten minutes later, it wasjust in time to watch a police vehicle draw up to the entrance of 320.Sensing danger, he stepped into the shade of the Tuscany Bar awning, andwatched the uniformed men pound their way down the marbled lobby floortowards the elevators. He thought fast, and decided that the arrival ofthe
police was connected with the shooting in Wright's office.

  The question was--who were they after?

  He walked into the Tuscany, and headed for the bank of visiphone booths.He dialed the police commissioner, but ducked out of the path of thevisiphone eye.

  Stinson growled at the blank screen. "Who is it?"

  "Never mind," Tom said, muffling his voice. "But if you want the killersof Walt Spencer and his wife, pick up John Andrusco and a gal namedLivia Cord."

  "Okay, Blacker," Stinson thundered. "I knew you'd be calling in."

  Tom swore, and showed himself. "Listen, I'm telling you the truth. Theytold me the whole story. Then they tried to have me killed."

  "Is that so? And I suppose the assassin was a guy named Wright?"

  "Yes!"

  "Okay, wise guy. We're on to you. You've been pocketing some of thatHomelovers dough, and the treasurer found you out. Isn't that thestory?"

  "No! Wright's one of _them_."

  "Sure, pal. Whatever you say. Only stay right where you are so you cando your explaining proper."

  Tom tightened his lips. "Uh-huh. I don't like the sound of things. I'llsee you later, Mr. Stinson."

  "Blacker!"

  Tom switched off.

  By the time he was settled behind the red neck of a cab-driver, Tom waswiping a dripping film of sweat from his forehead. He couldn't return tohis apartment; there was bound to be a stake-out. He couldn't go toLivia's; that would be walking right into danger. And he couldn't go toStinson, without risking a murder charge.

  He leaned forward.

  "Driver--make that the LaGuardia Heliport."

  However efficient Stinson's operations might have been, their tentacleshadn't reached the 'copter-rental station at the heliport. Tom signedout a speedy vessel under an assumed name, and taxied it down therunway. Then he pointed the nose west, and radioed ahead to hisdestination at Washington, D. C.

  * * * * *

  Colonel Grady Mordigan had the thoughtful air of a scholar and the bodyof a college wrestler. When