Stormgren was sleeping badly these nights, which was strange, since soon he would be putting aside the cares of office forever. He had served mankind for forty years, and its masters for five, and few men could look back upon a life that had seen so many of its ambitions achieved. Perhaps that was the trouble: in the years of retirement, however many they might be, he would have no further goals to give any zest to life. Since Martha had died and the children had established their own families, his ties with the world seemed to have weakened. It might be, too, that he was beginning to identify himself with the Overlords, and thus become detached from humanity.
This was another of those restless nights when his brain went on turning like a machine whose governor had failed. He knew better than to woo sleep any further, and reluctantly climbed out of bed. Throwing on his dressing-gown, he strolled out on to the roof garden of his modest flat. There was not one of his direct subordinates who did not possess much more luxurious quarters, but this place was ample for Stormgren’s needs. He had reached the position where neither personal possessions nor official ceremony could add anything to his stature. The night was warm, almost oppressive, but the sky was clear and a brilliant moon hung low in the south-west. Ten kilometres away, the lights of New York glowed on the skyline like a dawn frozen in the act of breaking.
Stormgren raised his eyes above the sleeping city, climbing again the heights that he alone of living men had scaled. Far away though it was, he could see the hull of Karellen’s ship glinting in the moonlight. He wondered what the Supervisor was doing, for he did not believe that the Overlords ever slept. High above, a meteor thrust its shining spear through the dome of the sky. The luminous trail glowed faintly for a while; then it died away, leaving only the stars. The reminder was brutal: in a hundred years, Karellen would still be leading mankind towards the goal that he alone could see, but four months from now another man would be Secretary-General. That in itself Stormgren was far from minding — but it meant that little time was left if he ever hoped to learn what lay behind that thickened screen.
Only in the last few days had he dared to admit that the Overlords’ secretiveness was beginning to obsess him. Until recently, his faith in Karellen had kept him free from doubts; but now, he thought a little wryly, the protests of the Freedom League were beginning to have their effect upon him. It was true that the propaganda about Man’s enslavement was no more than propaganda. Few people seriously believed it, or really wished for a return to the old days. Men had grown accustomed to Karellen’s imperceptible rule — but they were becoming impatient to know who ruled them. And how could they be blamed?
Though it was much the largest, the Freedom League was only one of the organizations that opposed Karellen — and, consequently, the humans who co-operated with the Overlords. The objections and policies of these groups varied enormously: some took the religious viewpoint, while others were merely expressing a sense of inferiority. They felt, with good reason, much as a cultured Indian of the nineteenth century must have done as he contemplated the British Raj. The invaders had brought peace and prosperity to Earth — but who knew what the cost might be? History was not reassuring: even the most peaceable of contacts between races at very different cultural levels had often resulted in the obliteration of the more backward society. Nations, as well as individuals, could lose their spirit when confronted by a challenge which they could not meet. And the civilization of the Overlords, veiled in mystery though it might be, was the greatest challenge Man had ever faced.
There was a faint click from the facsimile machine in the adjoining room as it ejected the hourly summary sent out by Central News. Stormgren wandered indoors and ruffled halfheartedly through the sheets. On the other side of the world, the Freedom League had inspired a not-very-original headline. “IS MAN RULED BY MONSTERS?” asked the paper, and went on to quote, “Addressing a meeting in Madras today, Dr. C. V. Krishnan, President of the Eastern Division of the Freedom League, said, ’The explanation of the Overlords’ behaviour is quiet simple. Their physical form is so alien and repulsive that they dare not show themselves to humanity. I challenge the Supervisor to deny this.”
Stormgren threw down the sheet in disgust. Even if the charge were true, did it really matter? The idea was an old one, but it had never worried him. He did not believe that there was my biological form, however strange, which he could not accept in time and, perhaps, even find beautiful. The mind, not the body, was all that mattered. If only he could convince Karellen of this, the Overlords might change their policy. It was certain that they could not be half as hideous as the imaginative drawings that had filled the papers soon after their coming to Earth!
Yet it was not, Stormgren knew, entirely consideration for his successor that made him anxious to see the end of this state of affairs. He was honest enough to admit that, in the final analysis, his, main motive was simple human curiosity. He had grown to know Karellen as a person, and he would never be satisfied until he had also discovered what kind of creature he might be.
When Stormgren failed to arrive at his usual time next morning, Pieter van Ryberg was surprised and a little annoyed. Though the Secretary General often made a number of calls before reaching his own office, he invariably left word that he was doing so. This morning, to make matters worse, there had been several urgent messages for Stormgren. Van Ryberg rang half a dozen departments to try and locate him, then gave it up in disgust.
By noon he had become alarmed and sent a car to Stormgren’s house. Ten minutes later he was startled by the scream of a siren, and a police patrol came racing up Roosevelt Drive. The news agencies must have had friends in that vehicle, for even as van Ryberg watched it approach, the radio was telling the world that he was no longer merely Assistant — but Acting — Secretary-General of the United Nations.
Had van Ryberg fewer troubles on his hands, he would have found it entertaining to study the press reactions to Stormgren’s disappearance. For the past month, the world’s papers had divided themselves into two sharply defined groups. The Western press, on the whole, approved of Karellen’s plan to make all men citizens of the world. The Eastern countries, on the other hand, were undergoing violent but largely synthetic spasms of national pride. Some of them had been independent for little more than a generation, and felt that they had been cheated out of their gains. Criticism of the Overlords was widespread and energetic: after an initial period of extreme caution, the Press had quickly found that it could be as rude to Karellen as it liked and nothing would happen. Now it was excelling itself.
Most of these attacks, though very vocal, were not representative of the great mass of the people. Along the frontiers that would soon be gone forever the guards had been doubled — but the soldiers eyed each other with a still inarticulate friendliness. The politicians and the generals might storm and rave, but the silently waiting millions felt that, none too soon, a long and bloody chapter of history was coming to an end.
And now Stormgren had gone, no one knew where. The tumult suddenly subsided as the world realized that it had lost the only man through whom the Overlords, for their own strange reasons, would speak to Earth. A paralysis seemed to descend upon the press and radio commentators, but in the silence could be heard the voice of the Freedom League, anxiously protesting its innocence. It was utterly dark when Stormgren awoke. For a moment he was too sleepy to realize how strange that was. Then, as full consciousness dawned, he sat up with a start and felt for the switch beside his bed.
In the darkness his hand encountered a bare stone wall, cold to the touch. He froze instantly, mind and body paralyzed by the impact of the unexpected. Then, scarcely believing his senses, he kneeled on the bed and began to explore with his finger tips that shockingly unfamiliar wall.
He had been doing this only for a moment when there was a sudden click and a section of the darkness slid aside. He caught a glimpse of a man silhouetted against a dimly lit background; then the door closed again and the darkness returned. It happened so swiftly that he had no chance to see anything of the room in which he was lying.
An instant later, he was dazzled by the light of a powerful electric torch. The beam flickered across his face, held him steadily for a moment, then dipped to illuminate the whole bed — which was, he now saw, nothing more than a mattress supported on rough planks.
Out of the darkness a soft voice spoke to him in excellent English, but with an accent which Stormgren could not at first identify.
“Ah, Mr. Secretary — I’m glad to see you’re awake. I hope you feel quite all right.”
There was something about the last sentence that caught Stormgren’s attention, so that the angry questions he had been about to ask died upon his lips. He stared back into the darkness, then replied calmly: “How long have I been unconscious?”
The other chuckled.
“Several days. We were promised there’d be no after-effects. I’m glad to see it’s true.”
Partly to gain time, partly to test his own reactions, Stormgren swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still wearing his night-clothes, but they were badly crumpled and seemed to have gathered considerable dirt. As he moved he felt a slight dizziness — not enough to be unpleasant but sufficient to convince him that he had indeed been drugged.
He turned towards the light.
“Where am I?” he said sharply. “Does Wainwright know about this?”
“Now, don’t get excited,” replied the shadowy figure. “We won’t talk about that sort of thing yet. I guess you’re pretty hungry. Get dressed and come along to dinner.”
The oval of light slipped across the room and for the first time Stormgren had an idea of its dimensions. It was scarcely a room at all, for the walls seemed bare rock, roughly smoothed into shape. He realized that he was underground, possibly at a great depth. And if he had been unconscious for several days, he might be anywhere on Earth.
The torch-light illuminated a pile of clothes draped over a packing-case.
“This should be enough for you,” said the voice from the darkness. “Laundry’s rather a problem here, so we grabbed a couple of your suits and half a dozen shirts.”
“That,” said Stormgren without humour, “was very considerate of you.”
“We’re sorry about the absence of furniture and electric Light. This place is convenient in some ways, but it rather lacks amenities.”
“Convenient for what?” asked Stormgren as he climbed into a shirt. The feel of the familiar cloth beneath his fingers was strangely reassuring.
“Just — convenient,” said the voice. “And by the way, since we’re likely to spend a good deal of time together, you’d better call me Joe.
“Despite your nationality,” retorted Stormgren, “—you’re Polish, aren’t you? — I think I could pronounce your real name. It won’t be worse than many Finnish ones.”
There was a slight pause and the light flickered for an distant.
’Well, I should have expected it,” said Joe resignedly. “You must have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.”
“It’s a useful hobby for a man in my position. At a guess I should say you were brought up in the United States but didn’t leave Poland until—”
“That,” said Joe firmly, “is quite enough. As you seem to save finished dressing — thank you.”
The door opened as Stormgren walked towards it, feeling mildly elated by his small victory. As Joe stood aside to let aim pass, he wondered if his captor was armed. Almost certainly he would be, and in any case he would have friends around.
The corridor was dimly lit by oil lamps at intervals, and for the first time Stormgren could see Joe clearly. He was a man of about fifty, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. Everything about him was outsize, from the stained battledress that might have come from any of half a dozen armed forces, to the startlingly large signet ring on his left band. A man built on this scale probably would not bother to carry a gun. It should not be difficult to trace him, thought Stormgren, if he ever got out of this place. He was a little depressed to realize that Joe must also be perfectly well aware of this fact.
The walls around them, though occasionally faced with concrete, were mostly bare rock. It was dear to Stormgren that he was in some disused mine, and he could think of few more effective prisons. Until now the fact of his kidnapping had failed to worry him greatly. He had felt that, whatever happened, the immense resources of the Overlords would soon locate and rescue him. Now he was not so sure. He had already been gone several days — and nothing had happened. There must be a limit even to Karellen’s power, and if he were indeed buried in some remote continent, all the science of the Overlords might be unable to trace him.
There were two other men sitting at the table in the bare, dimly lit room. They looked up with interest, and more than a little respect, as Stormgren entered. One of them pushed across a bundle of sandwiches which Stormgren accepted eagerly. Though he felt extremely hungry, he could have done with a more interesting meal, but it was probable that his captors had dined no better. As he ate, he glanced quickly at the three men around him.
Joe was by far the most outstanding character, and not merely In the matter of physical bulk. The others were clearly his assistants — nondescript individuals, whose origins Stormgren would be able to place when he heard them talk. Some wine had been produced in a not-too-aseptic glass, and Stormgren washed down the last of the sandwiches.
Feeling now more fully in command of the situation, he turned to the huge Pole. ’Well,” he said evenly, “perhaps you’ll tell me what all this Is about, and just what you hope to get out of it.”
Joe cleared his throat.
“I’d like to make one thing straight,” he said. “This is nothing to do with Wainwright. He’ll be as surprised as anyone.”
Stormgren had half expected this, though he wondered why Joe was confirming his suspicions. He had long suspected the existence of an extremist movement inside — or on the frontiers of — the Freedom League.
“As a matter of interest,” he said, “how did you kidnap me?” He hardly expected a reply to this, and was somewhat taken aback by the other’s readiness — even eagerness — to answer.
“It was all rather like a Hollywood thriller,” said Joe cheerfully. “We weren’t sure if Karellen kept a watch on you, so we took somewhat elaborate precautions. You were knocked out by gas in the air-conditioner — that was easy. Then we carried you out into the car — no trouble at all. All this, I might say, wasn’t done by any of our people. We hired — er — professionals for the job. Karellen may get them — in fact, he’s supposed to — but he’ll be no wiser. When it left your house, the car drove into a long road tunnel not a thousand kilometres from New York. It came out again on schedule at the opposite end, still carrying a drugged man extraordinarily like the Secretary-General. Quite a while later a large truck loaded with metal cases emerged in the opposite direction and drove to a certain airfield where the cases were loaded aboard a freighter on perfectly legitimate business. I’m sure the owners of those cases would be horrified to know how we employed them.
“Meanwhile the car that had actually done the job continued elaborate evasive action towards the Canadian border. Perhaps Karellen’s caught it by now; I don’t know or care. As you’ll see — I do hope you appreciate my frankness — our whole plan depended on one thing. We’re pretty sure that Karellen can see and hear everything that happens on the surface of the Earth — but unless he uses magic, not science, he can’t see underneath it. So he won’t know about the transfer in the tunnel — at least until it’s too late. Naturally we’ve taken a risk, but there were also one or two other safeguards I won’t go into now. We may want to use them again, and it would be a pity to give them away.”
Joe had related the whole story with such obvious gusto that Stormgren could hardly help smiling. Yet he also felt very disturbed. The plan was an ingenious one, and it was quite possible that Karellen had been deceived. Stormgren was not even certain that the Overlord kept any form of protective surveillance over him. Nor, clearly, was Joe. Perhaps that was why he had been so frank — he wanted to test Stormgren’s reactions. Well, he would try and appear confident, whatever his real feelings might be.
“You must be a lot of fools,” said Stormgren scornfully, “if you think you can trick the Overlords as easily as this. In any case, what conceivable good will it do?”
Joe offered him a cigarette, which Stormgren refused, then lit one himself and sat on the edge of the table. There was an ominous creaking and he jumped off hastily.
“Our motives,” he began, “should be pretty obvious. We’ve found arguments useless, so we have to take other measures. There have been underground movements before, and even Karellen, whatever powers he’s got, won’t find it easy to deal with us. We’re out to fight for our independence. Don’t misunderstand me. There’ll be nothing violent — at first, anyway — but the Overlords have to use human agents, and we can make it mighty uncomfortable for them.”
Starting with me, I suppose, thought Stormgren. He wondered if the other had given him more than a fraction of the whole story. Did they really think that these gangster methods would Influence Karellen in the slightest? On the other hand, it was quite true that a well-organized resistance movement could make life very difficult. For Joe had put his finger on the one weak spot in the Overlords’ rule. Ultimately, all their orders were carried out by human agents. If these were terrorized into disobedience, the whole system might collapse. It was only a faint possibility, for Stormgren felt confident that Karellen would soon find some solution.
“What do you intend to do with me?” asked Stormgren at length. “Am I a hostage, or what?”
“Don’t worry — we’ll look after you. We expect some visitors in a few days, and until then we’ll entertain you as well as we can.” He added some words in his own language, and one of the others produced a brand-new pack of cards.
“We got these especially for you,” explained Joe. “I read in Time the other day that you were a good poker player.” His voice suddenly became grave. “I hope there’s plenty of cash in your wallet,” he said anxiously. ’We never thought of looking. After all, we can hardly accept cheques.”
Quite overcome, Stormgren stared blankly at his captors.
Then, as the true humour of the situation sank into his mind, it suddenly seemed to him that all the cares and worries of office had lifted from his shoulders. From now on, it was van Ryberg’s show. Whatever happened, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it — and now these fantastic criminals were anxiously waiting to play poker with him.
Abruptly, he threw back his head and laughed as he had not done for years. There was no doubt, thought van Ryberg morosely, that Wainwright was telling the truth. He might have his suspicions, but he did not know who had kidnapped Stormgren. Nor did he approve of the kidnapping itself. Van Ryberg had a shrewd idea that for some tune extremists in the Freedom League had been putting pressure on Wainwright to make him adopt a more active policy. Now they were taking matters into their own hands.
The kidnapping had been beautifully organized, there was no doubt of that. Stormgren might be anywhere on Earth, and there seemed little hope of tracing him. Yet something must be done, decided van Ryberg, and done quickly. Despite the jests he had so often made, his real feeling towards Karellen was one of overwhelming awe. The thought of approaching the Supervisor directly filled him with dismay, but there seemed no alternative.
The communications section occupied the entire top floor of the great building. Lines of facsimile machines, some silent, some clicking busily, stretched away into the distance. Through them poured endless streams of statistics: production figures, census returns, and all the book-keeping of a world economic system. Somewhere up in Karellen’s ship must lie the equivalent of this great room — and van Ryberg wondered, with a tingling of the spine, what shapes moved to and fro collecting the messages that Earth was sending to the Overlords.
But today he was not interested in these machines and the routine business they handled. He walked to the little private room that only Stormgren was supposed to enter. At his instructions, the lock had been forced and the Chief Communications Officer was waiting there for him.
“It’s an ordinary teleprinter — standard typewriter keyboard,” he was told.
“There’s a facsimile machine as well if you want to send any pictures or tabular information — but you said you wouldn’t be needing that.”
Van Ryberg nodded absently. “That’s all. Thanks,” he said. “I don’t expect to be here very long. Then get the place locked up again and give me all the keys.”
He waited until the Communications Officer had left, and then sat down at the machine. It was, he knew, very seldom used, since nearly all business between Karellen and Stormgren was dealt with at their weekly meetings. Since this was something of an emergency circuit, he expected a reply fairly quickly.
After a moment’s hesitation, he began to tap out his message with unpracticed fingers. The machine purred away quietly and the words gleamed for a few seconds on the darkened screen.
Then he leaned back and waited for the answer. Scarcely a minute later the machine started to whirr again. Not for the first time, van Ryberg wondered if the Supervisor ever slept. The message was as brief as it was unhelpful.
NO INFORMATION. LEAVE MATTERS ENTIRELY TO YOUR DISCRETION. K. Rather bitterly, and without any satisfaction at all, van Ryberg realized how much greatness had been thrust upon him.
During the past three days Stormgren had analyzed his captors with some thoroughness. Joe was the only one of any importance; the others were nonentities — the riff-raff one would expect any illegal movement to gather round itself The ideals of the Freedom League meant nothing to them; their only concern was earning a living with the minimum of work.
Joe was an altogether more complex individual, though sometimes he reminded Stormgren of an overgrown baby. Their interminable poker games were punctuated with violent political arguments, and it soon became obvious to Stormgren that the big Pole had never thought seriously about the causes for which he was fighting. Emotion and extreme conservatism clouded all his judgments. His country’s long struggle for independence had conditioned him so completely that he still lived in the past. He was a picturesque survival, one of those who had no use for an ordered way of life. When his type vanished, if it ever did, the world would be a safer but less interesting place.
There was now little doubt, as far as Stormgren was concerned, that Karellen had failed to locate him. He had tried to bluff, but his captors were unconvinced. He was fairly certain that they had been holding him here to see if Karellen would act, and now that nothing had happened they could proceed with their plans.
Stormgren was not surprised when, four days after his capture, Joe told him to expect visitors. For some time the little group had shown increasing nervousness, and the prisoner guessed that the leaders of the movement, having seen that the coast was clear, were at last coming to collect him.
They were already waiting, gathered round the rickety table, when Joe waved him politely into the living room. Stormgren was amused to note that his jailer was now wearing, very ostentatiously, a huge pistol that had never been in evidence before. The two thugs had vanished, and even Joe seemed somewhat restrained. Stormgren could see at once that he was now confronted by men of a much higher calibre, and the group opposite him reminded him strongly of a picture he had once seen of Lenin and his associates in the first days of the Russian Revolution. There was the same intellectual force, iron determination, and ruthlessness in these six men. Joe and his kind were harmless; here were the real brains behind the organization.
With a curt nod, Stormgren moved over to the only vacant seat and tried to look self-possessed. As he approached, the elderly, thick-set man on the far side of the table leaned forward and stared at him with piercing grey eyes. They made Stormgren so uncomfortable that he spoke first — something he had not intended to do.
“I suppose you’ve come to discuss terms. What’s my ransom?”
He noticed that in the background someone was taking down his words in a shorthand notebook. It was all very businesslike.
The leader replied in a musical Welsh accent.
“You could put it that way, Mr. Secretary-General. But we’re interested in information, not cash.”
So that was it, thought Stormgren. He was a prisoner of war, and this was his interrogation.
“You know what our motives are,” continued the other in his softly lilting voice. “Call us a resistance movement, if you like. We believe that sooner or later Earth will have to fight for its independence — but we realize that the struggle can only be by indirect methods such as sabotage and disobedience. We kidnapped you partly to show Karellen that we mean business and are well organized, but largely because you are the only man who can tell us anything of the Overlords. You’re a reasonable man, Mr. Stormgren. Give us your co-operation, and you can have your freedom.”
“Exactly what do you wish to know?” asked Stormgren cautiously.
Those extraordinary eyes seemed to search his mind to its depths; they were unlike any that Stormgren had ever seen in his life. Then the sing-song voice replied:
“Do you know who, or what, the Overlords really are?”
Stormgren almost smiled.
“Believe me,” he said, “I’m quite as anxious as you to discover that.”
“Then you’ll answer our questions?”
“I make no promises. But I may.”
There was a slight sigh of relief from Joe, and a rustle of anticipation ran round the room.
“We have a general idea,” continued the other, “of the circumstances in which you meet Karellen. But perhaps you would describe them carefully, leaving out nothing of importance.”
That was harmless enough, thought Stormgren. He had done it many times before, and it would give the appearance of co-operation. There were acute minds here, and perhaps they could uncover something new. They were welcome to any fresh information they could extract from him — so long as they shared it. That it could harm Karellen in any way he did not for a moment believe.
Stormgren felt in his pockets and produced a pencil and an old envelope. Sketching rapidly while he spoke, he began:
“You know, of course, that a small flying machine, with no obvious means of propulsion, calls for me at regular intervals and takes me up to Karellen’s ship. It enters the hull — and you’ve doubtless seen the telescopic films that have been taken of that operation. The door opens again — if you can call it a door — and I go into a small room with a table, a chair, and a vision screen. The layout is something like this.”
He pushed the plan across to the old Welshman, but the strange eyes never turned towards it. They were still fixed on Stormgren’s face, and as he watched them something seemed to change in their depths. The room had become completely silent, but behind him he heard Joe take a sudden indrawn breath.
Puzzled and annoyed, Stormgren stared back at the other, and as he did so, understanding slowly dawned. In his confusion he crumpled the envelope into a ball of paper and ground it underfoot.
He knew now why those grey eyes had affected him so strangely. The man opposite him was blind.
Van Ryberg had made no further attempts to contact. Karellen. Much of his department’s work — the forwarding of statistical information, the abstracting of the world’s press, and the like — had continued automatically. In Paris the lawyers were still wrangling over the proposed World Constitution, but that was none of his business for the moment. It was a fortnight before the Supervisor wanted the final draft; if it was not ready by then, no doubt Karellen would take what action he thought fit.
And there was still no news of Stormgren.
Van Ryberg was dictating when the “Emergency Only” telephone started to ring. He grabbed the receiver and listened with mounting astonishment, then threw it down and rushed to the open window. In the distance, cries of amazement were rising from the streets, and traffic was slowing to a halt.
It was true: Karellen’s ship, that never-changing symbol of the Overlords, was no longer in the sky. He searched the heavens as far as he could see, and found no trace of it. Then, suddenly, it seemed as if night had swiftly fallen. Coming down from the north, its shadowed underbelly black as a thundercloud, the great ship was racing low over the towers of New York. Involuntarily, van Ryberg shrank away from the onrushing monster. He had always known how huge the ships of the Overlords really were — but it was one thing to see them far away in space, and quite another to watch them passing overhead like demon-driven clouds.
In the darkness of that partial eclipse, he watched until the ship and its monstrous shadow had vanished into the south. There was no sound, not even the whisper of air, and van Ryberg realized that despite its apparent nearness the ship had passed at least a kilometre above his head. Then the building shuddered once as the shock wave struck it, and from somewhere came the tinkling of broken glass as a window blew inwards.
In the office behind him all the telephones had started to ring, but van Ryberg did not move. He remained leaning against the window ledge, still staring into the south, paralyzed by the presence of illimitable power.
As Stormgren talked, it seemed to him that his mind was operating on two levels simultaneously. On the one hand he was trying to defy the men who had captured him, yet on the other he was hoping that they might help him unravel Karellen’s secret. It was a dangerous game, yet to his surprise he was enjoying it. The blind Welshman had conducted most of the interrogation. It was fascinating to watch that agile mind trying one opening after another, testing and rejecting all the theories that Stormgren himself had abandoned long ago. Presently he leaned back with a sigh.
“We’re getting nowhere,” he said resignedly. “We want more facts, and that means action, not argument.” The sightless eyes seemed to stare thoughtfully at Stormgren. For a moment he tapped nervously on the table — it was the first sign of uncertainty that Stormgren had noticed. Then he continued:
“I’m a little surprised, Mr. Secretary, that you’ve never made any effort to learn more about the Overlords.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Stormgren coldly, trying to disguise his interest. “I’ve told you that there’s only one way out of the room in which I have my talks with Karellen — and that leads straight back to Earth.”
“It might be possible,” mused the other, “to devise instruments which could teach us something. I’m no scientist, but we can look into the matter. If we give you your freedom, would you be willing to assist with such a plan?”
“Once and for all,” said Stormgren angrily, “let me make my position perfectly clear. Karellen is working for a united world, and I’ll do nothing to help his enemies. What his ultimate plans may be, I don’t know, but I believe that they are good.”
’What real proof have we of that?”
“All his actions, ever since his ships appeared in our skies. I defy you to mention one act that, in the ultimate analysis, hasn’t been beneficial.”
Stormgren paused for a moment, letting his mind run back through the past years. Then he smiled.
“If you want a single proof of the essential — how shall I put it? — benevolence of the Overlords, think of that cruelty-to-animals order which they made within a month of their arrival. If I had any doubts about Karellen before, that banished them — even though that order has caused me more trouble than anything else he’s ever done!”
That was scarcely an exaggeration, Stormgren thought. The whole incident had been an extraordinary one, the first revelation of the Overlords’ hatred of cruelty. That, and their passion for justice and order, seemed to be the dominant emotions in their lives — as far as one could judge them by their actions.
And it was the only time Karellen had shown anger, or at least the appearance of anger. “You may kill one another if you wish,” the message had gone, “and that is a matter between you and your own laws. But if you slay, except for food or in self-defence, the beasts that share your world with you — then you may be answerable to me.”
No one knew exactly how comprehensive this ban was supposed to be, or what Karellen would do to enforce it. They had not long to wait.
The Plaza de Toros was full when the matadors and their attendants began their professional entry. Everything seemed normal: the brilliant sunlight blazed harshly on the traditional costumes, the great crowd greeted its favourites as it had a hundred times before. Yet here and there faces were turned anxiously towards the sky, to the aloof silver shape fifty kilometres above Madrid. Then the picadors had taken up their places and the bull had come snorting out into the arena. The skinny horses, nostrils wide with terror, had wheeled in the sunlight as their riders forced them to meet their enemy. The first lance flashed — made contact — and at that moment came a sound that had never been heard on Earth before.
It was the sound often thousand people screaming with the pain of the same wound — ten thousand people who, when they had recovered from the shock, found themselves completely unharmed. But that was the end of that bull-fight, and indeed of all bull-fighting, for the news spread rapidly. It is worth recording that the aficionados were so shaken that only one in ten asked for their money back, and also that the London Daily Mirror made matters much worse by suggesting that the Spaniards adopt cricket as a new national sport.
“You may be correct,” the old Welshman replied. ’Possibly the motives of the Overlords are good — according to their standards, which may sometimes be the same as ours. But they are interlopers — we never asked them to come here and turn our world upside-down, destroying ideals — yes, and nations — that generations of men have fought to protect.”
“I come from a small nation that had to fight for its liberties,” retorted Stormgren. “Yet I am for Karellen. You may annoy him, you may even delay the achievement of his aims, but it will make no difference m the end. Doubtless you are sincere in believing as you do. I can understand your fear that the traditions and cultures of little countries will be overwhelmed when the World State arrives. But you are wrong: it is useless to cling to the past. Even before the Overlords came to Earth, the sovereign state was dying. They have merely hastened its end; no one can save it now — and no one should try.”
There was no answer; the man opposite neither moved nor spoke. He sat with his lips half open, his eyes now lifeless as well as blind. Around hint the others were equally motionless, frozen in strained, unnatural attitudes. With a gasp of pure horror, Stormgren rose to his feet and backed away towards the door. As he did so the silence was suddenly broken.
“That was a nice speech, Rikki; thank you. Now I think we can go.”
Stormgren spun on his heels and stared into the shadowed corridor. Floating there at eye-level was a small, featureless sphere — the source, no doubt, of whatever mysterious force the Overlords had brought into action. It was hard to be sure, but Stormgren imagined that be could hear a faint humming, as of a hive of bees on a drowsy summer day.
“Karellen! Thank God! But what have you done?”
“Don’t worry they’re quite all right. You can call it a paralysis, but it’s much subtler than that. They’re simply living a few thousand years more slowly than normal. When we’ve gone they’ll never know what happened.”
“You’ll leave them here until the police come?”
“No. I’ve a much better plan. I’m letting them go.”
Stormgren felt a surprising sense of relief. He gave a last valedictory glance at the little room and its frozen occupants. Joe was standing on one foot, staring very stupidly at nothing. Suddenly Stormgren laughed and fumbled in his pockets.
“Thanks for the hospitality, Joe,” he said. “I think I’ll leave a souvenir.”
He ruffled through the scraps of paper until he had found the figures he wanted. Then, on a reasonably clean sheet, he wrote carefully:
“BANK OF MANHATTAN
Pay Joe the sum of One Hundred Thrity-Five Dollars and Fifty Cents (135.50) R. Stormgren. “
As he laid the strip of paper beside the Pole, Karellen’s voice enquired:
“Exactly what are you doing?”
“We Stormgrens always pay our debts. The other two cheated, but Joe played fair. At least I never caught him out.”
He felt very gay and lightheaded, and quite forty years younger, as he walked to the door. The metal sphere moved aside to let him pass. He assumed that it was some kind of robot, and it explained how Karellen had been able to reach him through the unknown layers of rock overhead.
“Carry straight on for a hundred metres,” said the sphere, speaking in Karellen’s voice. “Then turn to the left until I give you further instructions.”
He strode forward eagerly, though he realized that there was no need for hurry. The sphere remained hanging in the corridor, presumably covering his retreat. A minute later he came across a second sphere, waiting for him at a branch in the corridor.
“You’ve half a kilometre to go,” it said. “Keep to the left until we meet again.”
Six times he encountered the spheres on his way to the open. At first he wondered if, somehow, the robot was managing to keep ahead of him; then he guessed that there must be a chain of the machines maintaining a complete circuit down into the depths of the mine. At the entrance a group of guards formed a piece of improbable statuary, watched over by yet another of the ubiquitous spheres. On the hillside a few metres away lay the little flying machine in which Stormgren had made all his journeys to Karellen.
He stood for a moment blinking in the sunlight. Then he saw the ruined mining machinery around hint, and beyond that a derelict railway stretching down the mountainside. Several kilometres away a dense forest lapped at the base of the mountain, and very far off Stormgren could see the gleam of water from a great lake. He guessed that he was somewhere in South America, though it was not easy to say exactly what gave him that impression.
As he climbed into the little flying machine, Stormgren had a last glimpse of the mine entrance and the men frozen around it. Then the door sealed behind him and with a sigh of relief he sank back upon the familiar couch.
For a while he waited until he had recovered his breath; then he uttered a single, heart-felt syllable:
“Well?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t rescue you before. But you see how very important it was to wait until all the leaders had gathered here.”
“Do you mean to say,” spluttered Stormgren, “that you knew where I was all the time? If I thought—”
“Don’t be too hasty,” answered Karellen, “at least, let me finish explaining.”
“Very well,” said Stormgren darkly, “I’m listening.” He was beginning to suspect that he had been no more than bait In an elaborate trap.
“I’ve had a — perhaps ’tracer’ is the best word for it — on you For some time,” began Karellen. “Though your late friends were correct in thinking that I couldn’t follow you underground, I was able to keep track until they brought you to the nine. That transfer in the tunnel was ingenious, but when the first car ceased to react it gave the plan away and I soon located you again. Then it was merely a matter of waiting. I knew that once they were certain I’d lost you, the leaders would come here and I’d be able trap them all.”
“But you’re letting them go!”
“Until now,” said Karellen, “I had no way of telling who of the two and a half billion men on this planet were the real heads of the organization. Now that they’re located, I can trace their movements anywhere on Earth, and can watch their actions in detail if I want to. That’s far better than locking them up. If they make any moves, they’ll betray their remaining comrades. They’re effectively neutralized, and they know it. Your rescue will be completely inexplicable to them, for you must have vanished before their eyes.” That rich laugh echoed round the tiny room.
“In some ways the whole affair was a comedy, but it had a serious purpose. I’m not merely concerned with the few score men in this organization — I have to think of the moral effect on other groups that exist elsewhere.” Stormgren was silent for a while. He was not altogether satisfied, but he could see Karellen’s point of view, and some of his anger had evaporated.
“It’s a pity to do it in my last few weeks of office,” he said finally, “but from now on I’m going to have a guard on my house. Pieter can be kidnapped next time. How has he managed, by the way?”
“I’ve watched him carefully this last week, and have deliberately avoided helping him. On the whole he’s done very well — but he’s not the man to take your place.”
“That’s lucky for him,” said Stormgren, still somewhat aggrieved. “And by the way, have you had any word yet from your superiors — about showing yourself to us? I’m sure now that it’s the strongest argument your enemies have. Again and again they told me, ’We’ll never trust the Overlords until we can see them. “ Karellen sighed.
“No. I’ve heard nothing. But I know what the answer must be.” Stormgren did not press the matter. Once he might have done so, but now for the first time the faint shadow of a plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. The words of his interrogator passed again through his memory. Yes, perhaps instruments could be devised….
What he had refused to do under duress, he might yet attempt of his own free will.