Space Visitor Page 5

  Director Vogel said, his heavy Swedish accent coming through the Esperanto, “Doctor Brecht, you are an employee of the Ozma Department. I order you to reveal the location of———”

  “I just resigned,” Brecht growled.

  “You are under contract.”

  “I just broke it.”

  “That would void your pension.”

  Brecht stared at him in disgust. “I have the possible fate of the human race in my hands and you threaten me with something as meaningless and trivial as voiding my pension. Do you think I give a damn about my pension?”

  The Director shifted unhappily in his chair and for the time said no more.

  The Soviet Minister spoke up. “Let us not be too abrupt. I, for one, am flabbergasted. Has anyone come up with any theories about just why this sputnik from space landed itself on our moon?

  “I understand it is thought to be millions of years old.” He looked at Director Vogel.

  “Yes, if Brecht’s story is true. The rock he took from under it was turned over to a representative of my department and was fully tested in our laboratories. It is assumed to be at least as old as the period when life first appeared on Earth. I might mention at this point that this will give a considerable boost to directed panspermia theory research.”

  Yuan Lung said politely, “I am afraid that I am not acquainted with the theory you mention.”

  Vogel turned to him. “The term was first used by a Swedish chemist, Svante Arrhenius. As far back as 1908, he suggested that living cells floated haphazardly through the universe, bringing life to suitable planets.”

  “Ridiculous,” President Rice snorted. “Why, they’d freeze to death out there in space.”

  The Director faced him. “In the 1970s… the theory was expanded by Francis Crick, who earlier had won the Nobel Prize for helping discover the structure of DNA, the master molecule of life. With Leslie Orgel, of Stalk Institute, he advanced the possibility that life had come to this planet by spaceship, a deliberate act of seeding.

  “They started with the question of why there is only one genetic code for terrestrial life. If life sprang up in some great ‘primeval soup’ as most biologists assume, it is surprising that a number of organisms with different codes do not exist. Crick and Orgel said that the existence of a single code seemed to be entirely compatible with the theory that all life descended from a single instance of directed panspermia.”

  He paused for a moment before going on. “They also noted that molybdenum plays a major role in many enzymatic reactions that are significant to life. Yet this element is rare, much less abundant than, say, nickel or chromium which are relatively umimportant in biochemical reactions. Because the chemical composition of organisms reflects to some extent the composition of the environment in which they evolved, thus

  Crick and Orgel suggested that Earth life could have begun on a planet where molybdenum is more abundant.”

  “It’s not as farfetched as it might seem at first,” Max Zimmerman mused. “Even today, our technology has reached the point where we could do some panspermia experiments of our own. Microorganisms, such as dormant algae and bacterial spores suitably protected and maintained at temperatures close to absolute zero, could be kept alive for hundreds of thousands of years. We could send them out in space probes that might someday orbit the planets of other star systems.”

  The Soviet Foreign Minister asked, “But why bother?”

  Zimmerman shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Possibly Crick and Orgel were right: I read an article of theirs while still in medical school in which they postulated it was just some form of missionary zeal, this spreading of life throughout the galaxy.”

  “I came to some sort of similar conclusion myself,” Brecht put in. “We have here a spaceship which comes from we know not where. Let’s say it orbited Earth and dropped its load of life forms into the oceans. Its task supposedly completed, why didn’t it simply drop down to Earth itself? The reason is that its task wasn’t—and isn’t—completed. It dared not drop down to Earth for fear that the life it seeded might destroy it.”

  He looked at each of them.

  The spacecraft took off for the moon, and deliberately hid itself in that cave. How it possibly could have done so is one of the things that astonishes me. It must be fantastically sophisticated. But why? That we can answer. Why… because it knew it had a long wait and wanted to be safe from meteorites. What was it waiting for? It was waiting for the life it seeded to evolve to the point where it had a technology advanced enough to travel to the moon, to discover the spaceship and to open it.”

  “What’s inside?” the Premier of Common Europe demanded.

  Brecht hesitated. Then he said carefully, “I suspect that inside is information beyond our wildest dreams: their technology and science, presented in such a manner that we can decipher and utilize it.”

  President Rice was indignant. “Confound it then, man, don’t you see that we must take immediate steps to open the damned thing? You owe it to the human race, to Earth, to reveal its location.” His voice had risen to an inspired level, the way it did when he was soliciting votes.

  Brecht shook his head impatiently. “You see, the intelligent beings who sent that fantastically advanced vessel through space to us made one mistake. It was a very basic mistake: they assumed that before a technological culture would reach the point where it could send its own space probes to its moon, it would have achieved civilization.”

  Once again, everyone was staring at him, his own teammates as well as the distinguished visitors.

  “But we haven’t,” he finished simply.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kingsley Brett-James laughed. “Bloody well told.”

  The Premier of Common Europe, of which the Englishman was a citizen, glared at him murderously, which affected that worthy not at all.

  “The party is getting dry. How about a refill?” Zimmerman said to Foucault.

  While the four leaders and Director Vogel eyed Brecht in frustration, Foucault went for another round.

  Brecht said, “I want to know what the world is going to do with that spacecraft up there before I reveal where it is. And the answer had better be good. So far, we’re off to a bad start: you haven’t informed the press that it’s there; you haven’t even let the General Secretary of the Reunited Nations in on it, though I’ll admit it’s a pretty sterile organization.”

  Foreign Minister Yuan Lung, who up until now had largely kept his peace, said softly, “We have some very effective truth serum in the People’s Republic.”

  Li Ching winced.

  “So have we,” said Yul Konov. He smiled meaningfully.

  “We’ll use our own truth serum,” President Rice said. He added politely, “We should get about this immediately and it would take too long to import yours. I am sure they are all equally effective.”

  Brecht was on his feet. “I am not a national of any of your countries. I am a citizen of Peru and demand the opportunity to get in communication with my embassy.”

  Olaf Gunther looked at him musingly. “It occurs to me, from your name, that your background is European. There might be legal aspects putting you under our jurisdiction.”

  Brecht flushed angrily. “My German grandfather migrated to Peru and married a half-Spanish, half-Indian woman. My father married a full-blooded Peruvian Indian. I am not even half European—as though that makes any goddamned difference.”

  President Rice said smoothly, “Gentlemen, gentlemen, it is not a problem. The good doctor is in the United American Republic and consequently under our jurisdiction and subject to arrest.”

  “I’m beginning to feel sick,” Mary Lou said, looking at her lover in despair.

  “What’s the charge?” Zimmerman asked.

  Brecht was heartened to hear his team uniting behind him.

  “I am sure our F.B.I, can come up with some suitable charge.”

  Azikiwe Awolowo spoke up for the first time.

  �
��How about breaking and entering?” she said angrily.

  Gentle, soft-spoken Li Ching snapped contemptuously, “How about rape?”

  Brett-James said softly, “According to the Thoughts of Mao, rape is impossible. A girl with her dress up can run faster than a man with his pants down.”

  Gunther glared at him again. “This is hardly a time for levity.”

  “To the contrary,” Zimmerman said coldly, “this thing is becoming more laughable by the minute and I, personally, am rapidly coming to agree with the stand that my colleague has taken.”

  “So am I,” Azikiwe said. “When he first told us, there in the Luna Hilton, about the existence of the extraterrestrial ship, I thought Doctor Brecht was quite mad not to immediately announce it. But after this conversation, I am having second thoughts. I too would like to know what the world plans to do with it before it is turned over to what could lead to a four-way conflict for its possession.”

  “Ditto, by George,” Brett-James murmured.

  Foreign Minister Yuan got to his feet. Looking down at the photos, he said politely, “For some reason, I still cannot quite believe the story.” He looked up at President Rice. “However, the truthfulness of the statement and the location of the spaceship will undoubtedly come out in the examination under truth serum. I assume you intend to make the investigation immediately?”

  The President beamed. “In anticipation, I have already taken measures. The Octagon has sent over the dosage.”

  “Very well. I assume my Embassy will be immediately informed of the results. Meanwhile, I shall report to my superiors.” He turned to Li Ching. “You will report to the Embassy of the People’s Republic at your earliest convenience, Comrade Li.”

  “No!” rapped Vogel.

  “Doctor Li is a citizen of the People’s Republic, Director.”

  President Rice said unhappily, “But until we have examined Brecht it is not actually known whether or not he has revealed the location of the spaceship to any of this companions.”

  The Foreign Minister bobbed his head in a quick bow. “I am willing to wait until the examination has taken place. If it is revealed that Doctor Li does not know the location, I request her presence at the Embassy.”

  “And I’d like to talk to Commander Brett-James at the Common Europe Embassy,” Olaf Gunther snapped.

  “Gentlemen, let us compromise,” Vogel said. “Tomorrow morning, if it is found that they are unacquainted with the location, Doctor Li and Commander Brett-James will be escorted, under guard, to your respective embassies. You will take over their security while they are inside. After two hours they will be released and returned under guard to the Reunited Nations Building until this whole matter is solved. Agreed?”

  They finally nodded.

  The visitors stood, preparatory to leaving. Di-rector Vogel remained seated, still eyeing Brecht malevolently.

  The President said, “I will send up the serum immediately.” To the other three leaders, “I suggest that we withdraw and have a conference among ourselves.”

  None of them bothered to make their farewells to the Luna team.

  When they were gone, Zimmerman looked around at the others and said, “What happens now?”

  Nobody seemed to know.

  “Another drink?” Foucault suggested brightly.

  Zimmerman asked, “What did you say your full name was?”

  “Jean Hippolyte Foucault.”

  “I thought Hippolyte was the Queen of the Amazons. Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

  Foucault smiled. “I’m half girl—on my mother’s side.”

  Azikiwe laughed. She looked at their Man Friday appreciatively. “You’re beginning to shape up.”

  Director Vogel opened his mouth but then closed it again.

  “Let’s have that drink,” Mary Lou said, resignation in her voice. “We might as well get smashed.”

  By the time Foucault had served them all, save Vogel, who had shaken his head in disgust, the bell tinkled again and the French-Moroccan hurried to the door.

  He returned with Doctor Oswaldo Klein, who had but one bag with him this time. They watched him withdraw a hypodermic.

  He said, irritated again, “I’ll be damned if I know what’s going on but my instructions are to give Werner Brecht this shot.”

  In resignation, Brecht rolled up his sleeve.

  Zimmerman snapped, “As Doctor Brecht’s physician I refuse to allow him to take that shot. He has not been back on Earth more than a few hours and—”

  “It’s all right, Kike,” Brecht said wearily. “They’d just bring in some of those bully-boys and I’d get it anyway with a few bruises to boot.”

  After he’d taken the injection and rolled down his sleeve again, he asked, “How long does it take to work?”

  “Practically immediately,” the doctor said, snapping his medical kit shut. He looked around. “I’d like to know what the hell’s going on around here.”

  “That will be all, Doctor Klein,” Vogel said ominously.

  The doctor turned and was escorted out by Foucault.

  Director Nilsson Vogel waited a full ten minutes before he took up the questioning. The others remained silent, sipping their drinks. What was there to say?

  Vogel began finally, addressing himself directly to Brecht, “You claim that you found and photographed an extraterrestrial spaceship on the surface of Luna?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was it?”

  “It was under a rock ledge in what amounted to almost a cave.”

  “Where is the rock ledge located?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  They all gawked at him.

  Vogel snapped, “Why not?”

  Brecht said reasonably, “There aren’t exactly any road maps on Luna, you know. I could take you there, but I couldn’t explain to you where it is.”

  “There are aerial photos of the moon, taken ‘hen the Ozma program was first planned.”

  Brecht sighed. “Do you know the difference between an aerial photo and jockeying a Luna vehicle around those rocks and crags, those stark hills and gullies and sand dunes? I could no more point it out on an aerial photo than I could levitate.”

  “How far is it from Luna City?”

  The Peruvian thought about that. “I’d say as the crow flies, perhaps five or six miles. As the sand buggy crawls, possibly as much as ten.”

  The other was silent for several minutes. Finally he said, “Did you take any of your companions to it or tell them where it is located?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything, anything at all, that you can tell me that would indicate the location of this spaceship?”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  Brett-James laughed at the Director’s obvious frustration.

  “Up!” Vogel snapped, then got to his feet

  and stomped out of the room. He was obviously in a rage.

  Mary Lou said, “How about another drink?”

  Brecht looked at her. “Now there’s a facet of your personality I didn’t know about. I’d been thinking of making an honest woman of you, after I’ve won my Nobel Prize. But a female alcoholic…”

  “I still say they’ll shoot you, Kraut. No Nobel Prize,” Azikiwe said.

  Mary Lou was looking at Brecht thoughtfully. “Make an honest woman out of me, eh? Listen, while that truth serum is still working, answer this: do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Mary Lou.

  Zimmerman said, “Let’s take a pool. I’ll bet ten pseudo-dollars that the whole story’s on TV news by morning.”

  They eyed him, frowning.

  He shrugged. “This is all a damn farce, this secret bit. We six, Foucault the Amazon here, the Director and four world leaders are supposedly the only ones in on it. Ha! The President will take it up with his aides; he obviously hasn’t the brains to think out anything himself. How
many aides will he talk to? The two foreign ministers will have to relay it on to their governments. How many will be brought in to debate the alleged secret? Gunther is Premier of Common Europe. How many member governments will he have to bring it up to? Twenty? How many countries are there in Common Europe? Damned if I know.”

  “So?” Brett-James said.

  “So I say it will leak before morning. And then, as somebody observed, the manure will hit the fan.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was sheer luck that none of them had taken Max Zimmerman’s bet; they would have lost.

  As they straggled into the living room the next morning, they found Brett-James in front of the TV screen, laughing his head off at a face dark with righteous anger, above a reversed collar, sounding off in tones of rage.

  Zimmerman and Li Ching entered together. “What’s up, Your Majesty?”

  Brett-James dialed the set down and turned to them, still chuckling. “I’ve got some kind of Fundamentalist bishop on. He’s hit the ceiling, don’t you know? Says that it’s all a hoax. Life was created, so and so many thousand years ago—he has it down to the day—by God, along with all the stars in the universe and Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. All this stuff about a spaceship that’s been on the moon since before life started up in the oceans, is blasphemy.”

  Foucault came in, looking weary and harried, looking as though he’d been up all night. He said, “Somebody must have leaked it deliberately within an hour of leaving this suite. Damned if I know who, or why. But somebody among our top-secret boys evidently thought it would be bet-ter to spread the word. It’s going around like a top. We’re going to release the photos. No reason why not.”

  Werner Brecht entered. “What’s up?”

  Foucault answered, “The news is out. If any of you people want visitors, you’re perfectly free to have them. The guards will be maintained and even reinforced but you are no longer what practically amounted to being prisoners. Frankly, I wouldn’t suggest that any of you leave. Especially you, Doctor Brecht. There are some crackpot elements already calling for your neck.”

  “The damn fools!” Zimmerman exclaimed. “If anything happens to the Boche, they’ll never find the damn thing.”