Space Visitor Page 7

  “Hold it, hold it,” Brett-James protested. “I’m getting a headache, old chap.”

  Zimmerman continued heedlessly, “There are electronic devices now which accomplish roughly the same thing. The Tunnel diode is an example: electrons tunnel from one side of an electrical barrier to the other without going through it.”

  “What’s all this in aid of?” Brecht asked.

  Zimmerman shrugged. “Possibly those aliens are not limited in either communication or transport to the speed of light. Possibly that spaceship you found has been there only a few years, or even less, and right this minute is beaming information about Earth back to its home planet.”

  “But that rock Brecht found was millions of years old,” Li Ching protested.

  Zimmerman nodded. “But the spaceship was on top of the rock; the rock wasn’t on top of the spaceship. There are tons of rocks on the surface of the moon that are millions of years old. The ship could have landed at any time. It doesn’t prove anything about how long it’s been there simply by sitting on something millions of years old.”

  “To get back to that silly senator…” Azikiwe said sourly, “…it’s not just the Americans. They’re all beating the war drums—as though interstellar cultures should be dealt with in the same manner as our primitive Earthside international politics. When are we going to grow up?”

  Brecht said, “I’d think it’s rather a basic assumption that as a culture achieves ultra-technology, with it would go tolerance and compassion. I should think that eventually, when we contact our superiors out there among the stars, we need have nothing to fear save our own shortcomings. At this point we are a rather simple culture.”

  Brett-James said lightly, “According to the Thoughts of Mao, the simple things of life are the most satisfying. Sleeping soundly, breathing clean invigorating air, drinking clean fresh water… girls.”

  Li Ching flushed. “Chairman Mao never said anything like that,” She spat out angrily.

  Brett-James’ eyes widened in surprise. “I apologize and all that. It must have been George Washington who said it, or possibly Buddah.”

  Azikiwe said hastily, “I think I’m going to join that World Government League.”

  “What’s their stand?”

  “Form a valid world government; persuade the Kraut, here, to reveal the spaceship’s location; investigate its contents to see if we can learn anything—technologically; open up contact with the aliens as soon as possible. In general, play it by ear.”

  “Makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard so far.” Brecht stood up. “The hell with it. I’m going to bed. Good night, all.”

  Zimmerman was saying, “What do you think, Chink?”

  A Ching said flatly, “The word Chinese is derived from Ch’in, a dynasty that preceded the Christian era. I am a Han, not a Ch’in, not to speak of being a Chink.”

  Max Zimmerman was clearly taken aback. “Jesus! Sorry.”

  Brecht went on to his room. Silently, his face expressionless, he undressed. Since Mary Lou was gone to see her mother in South Carolina and there would be no bed companion for him tonight, he donned pajamas. But instead of getting under the covers and seeking sleep, he stretched out on top of them, put his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling.

  He didn’t know if things were going the way he wanted them to or not. Originally, he had expected the discovery he had reported to be taken immediately to the Reunited Nations. Although the news media had it in full now, thus far the world organization had had nothing to say. Possibly it was because the major powers controlled it.

  He was still musing some fifteen minutes later when a knock came at the door. He was puzzled but he called, “Come on in, the door’s unlocked.”

  And Li Ching entered.

  Dressed in a diaphanous wisp of a nightgown, she bore a tray with an open bottle of champagne and two glasses, both full. She put the tray down on the night table between the beds and went back to lock the door before returning to sit on the twin bed across from him. Her face was slightly flushed and her almond eyes downcast.

  Brecht was astonished. “What in the world, Li Ching…?”

  Her voice was low, hesitant. “It occurred to me that you might be lonesome tonight, especially in view of all the pressure on you these days, and that perhaps you might like a nightcap, Werner.”

  He had always found her superlatively attractive, even though he had chosen Mary Lou Pickett to be his bed companion in the Luna Hilton.

  He looked at her now, sitting there on the edge of his bed, her nightgown nearly transparent. “Werner, eh? Not the Kraut? Not the Boche?”

  She tightened her lips infinitesimally and. said, “I think those nicknames are somewhat ridiculous, Werner. You’re not even a German. Here, darling, would you like a sip of wine? It’s pleasantly cold.”

  “No—not yet, at least.” He looked into her face a long time before speaking again and she began to flush a little. “How about Max, Li Ching? I thought you were in love with him.”

  She shrugged her slight shoulders. “That was a temporary arrangement, for our time on the moon. Surely none of us thought of it as permanent. When you had your other two tours of duty, didn’t you have temporary women companions that you gave up once you returned to Earth?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Once a Dutch girl, and once a Yugoslavian.”

  “Well…” She cast her eyes down. “Don’t you like me?”

  “I always have, Li Ching. Come over here.”

  She hesitated for the briefest moment, before crossing to him. She glanced at the wine in despair as she sat beside him.

  He ran one hand up the almost golden leg and pulled her head down. She gasped slightly, then let him kiss her. Her passion grew with his fondling, her eyes on his.

  Although he had been restraining himself thus far, partly because his mind had been so concentrated oh other things earlier, partly because he felt like a bit of a heel, now the pleasure and demands of the sex act took over and he could think of nothing save the petite woman next to him.

  When it was over, she stretched out by his side, breathing deeply.

  “Do… do you love me?”

  He said gently, “The same as I have always loved you, Li Ching.”

  “But—but now…”

  He said nothing.

  She hung her head for a moment, then took a deep breath. “That made me terribly thirsty. Would you like some of the wine now?”

  He looked at her and shook his head. “Li Ching, you make a lousy seductress. I am afraid that it isn’t in your character.”

  “I… I don’t know what you mean.” She came to her feet and stared down at him. There was desperation in her eyes. Desperation, hurt, and shame. She gave it one last try. Picking up one of the glasses of champagne, she said, “Here, darling.”

  Brecht sighed deeply. “What’s in the champagne, Li Ching? Is the People’s Republic of China trying to poison me? A slug of poison delivered to me by one of the people I like most in this world.”

  Her slight shoulders sagged. “Oh, no, Werner.

  Not poison—not from me. It is a truth serum. It was hoped that under its influence you would reveal the location of the extraterrestrial craft. The government of my people desperately wish to find it before the imperialist powers do. They will use its contents only for honorable purposes.”

  “Of course,” Brecht said. “So would any of the other rival powers if they were to get to it first.”

  “But… but you must understand, Werner! The People’s Republic has no ulterior motives.”

  “So I see. Even though they tried to make a whore of you to gain their ends.” He sighed. “Good night, Li Ching. I’m sorry it worked out this way. No hard feelings—you did what you thought was your duty. By the way…”

  She was hanging her head.

  “You look really cute in that outfit. And it was an awfully good experience. But, in spite of it all, I’m in love with Mary Lou. Good night
again, Li Ching.” -

  Right at the door, she turned and frowned at him. “How did you know?” she asked.

  He gave a sour little laugh. “Li Ching, Li Ching… it was obvious you had been brainwashed at the Chinese Embassy, or rather, de-brainwashed, so that you would no longer feel affection toward the rest of us. Otherwise you wouldn’t have spoken so sharply to Brett-James. Nor would you have objected to Max calling you a Chink. If they brainwashed you, it must have been to some purpose. What? There was only one purpose. And their need was to wipe away your subconscious affection for me.”

  “If so, they failed,” Li Ching said softly. She unlocked the door and was gone.

  He muttered, “Poor kid.”

  Max Zimmerman strolled in about ten minutes later. “Saw your light on, and thought I’d drop by,” he said. “I can’t stand any more of that TV crap.” He stretched out on the other twin bed. “You know what I think the Americans are building up to?”

  “No, what?”

  “Twisting your arm, Kraut. Making you take them up to the extraterrestrial ship. They’re one up on everybody else. They got you under their thumb: you’re not in Moscow, or Peking, or wherever; you’re right here in Greater Washington.”

  Brecht grunted. “If they tried it, Common Europe, the Soviet Complex, or China, or perhaps all three, would hit them,” he said.

  “Probably,” Zimmerman admitted. Then, irrelevantly he asked, “What would you do if you had a hundred million pseudo-dollars, Kraut?”

  “A hundred million? In my time I’ve wished I was a millionaire, but a hundred million…” Brecht laughed. “I couldn’t put a dent in a hundred million if I lived to be two hundred.”

  “I’d help you spend it.”

  “Here, have a glass of champagne. It’s still cold,” Brecht offered.

  The other took the glass and said, “Jesus, you Peruvians really live it up. Champagne in bed, yet.” He took a swallow and said, “Here’s to the ladies.” Then, “Think of all the ladies there’d be if you had a hundred million pseudo-dollars.”

  “I’ve got all the lady I want.”

  “A very narrow way of looking at it.” Zimmerman emptied his glass. “You’re not drinking.”

  “No. Who got to you, Kike?”

  The timber of the Israeli’s voice changed infinitesimally. “The Soviets,” he said.

  “How?” Brecht demanded. “You haven’t left the suite.”

  “Through Foucault. He works for the KGB. Kind of a double agent.”

  “I see. What was the plan?”

  “If you accepted the offer, to smuggle you out of here, over to the Soviet Complex, to lead a Soviet expedition to the alien spaceship.”

  “They would have had their work cut out, sneaking me out of here,” Brecht said in disgust. “Why in the hell did you do it, Max?”

  “Are you kidding?” A slice of a hundred million pseudo-dollars? I’m neither an American nor a Soviet and don’t support either of their countries. It’s not going to make any difference to me which one of them gets there first. It’ll probably lead to war either way, and we’ll all die. Meanwhile, I could be spending whatever portion of the hundred million you divvied up with me.”

  “Possibly makes some sense, Max, but it’s no go. “Sorry.”

  Zimmerman swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up and stretched. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He yawned. “How’d you get me to open up so easily?”

  “There was truth serum in the champagne,” Brecht told him. He had returned to staring up at the ceiling.

  “Well, good night again,” Zimmerman called, heading for the door. “See you in the morning. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion old Vogel will be back to question you some more.”

  “Probably,” Brecht muttered. He added bitterely, “I wonder who’s next.”

  Next was Kingsley Brett-James.

  He knocked, but entered before Brecht could speak. “Hallo, old chap. Something just came to mind that I think might be a bit urgent, don’t you know.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” The Peruvian gestured to the other bed.

  “That spacecraft,” Brett-James stated earnestly. “You’re the only one who knows where it is, Kraut. What happens if something happens to you? And the way things are developing, something could, don’t you know.”

  “I realize that.” Brecht sighed. “If something happens to me, though, they’ll never find it.”

  “That’s what I mean,” the Englishman said. “Kraut, the human race needs that vehicle. I’ve gone along with you thus far, but sooner or later, whatever’s in that spaceship ought to be revealed.”

  “So?”

  “On the face of it, old boy, you ought to tell one of us where it is. Surely you could give enough of a description of the route you take to get to it that one of us could find it.”

  “And you nominate yourself?”

  The Britisher nodded, unwontedly serious. “Since I thought of the idea. The fewer who knew that I knew, the better. If you told someone else instead, there would be three of us in on it.”

  Brecht sighed. “Li Ching offered me her fair young body and champagne. Zimmerman offered me, believe it or Ripley, a hundred million pseudo-dollars. You don’t offer me anything except a phony story. Your Majesty, tell your Common Europe superiors that it was a good try, but no dice. I’m keeping the location to myself.”

  Brett-James looked at him in frustration. “You’re making a mistake, Brecht, dear boy.”

  “Could be.”

  When the Englishman was gone, Brecht put his hands behind his head again and stared up at the ceiling, waiting.

  He thought, “Three down, one to go. At least Mary Lou is in South Carolina, where they can’t get at her.”

  The knock sounded at the door only moments later.

  Azikiwe Awolowo came in at his response. She was looking back over her shoulder. “Wasn’t that His Majesty?”

  “Yes,” said Brecht. “He came in with the idea that in view of the fact that some crackpot might get it into his head to knock me off, I should reveal to at least one other person the location of the spaceship.”

  “Oh,” she said, considering it. “Maybe that’s a good idea at that.”

  “Yeah, but who?”

  She was dressed in black slippers, black slacks, and a black turtlenecked sweater, and looked like a whole pile of million pseudo-dollar bills.

  “That’s a good question,” she said.

  “Stretch out and tell me all,” Brecht said wearily, gesturing at the other bed. “Who got to you, Azikiwe?”

  “How do you mean?” She lay down, copying him with her hands behind her head, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Who wants you to try and wriggle out of me the location of the space probe?”

  She was mildly surprised. “How in the hell did you know, Kraut? That’s what I came in to talk to you about.”

  “I just know,” he sighed.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” she said. “I came to tell you that the Afro-Asia Bloc tried to twist my arm earlier today to get you to open up.”

  “The Afro-Asian Bloc? Fer crissakes, why? None of them has a space program. They couldn’t get to the moon to recover the damn thing even if they knew where it was.” Brecht was surprised.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I guess they’re all caught up in the hysteria, or something. I went over to my Embassy just to check in, to make arrangements to transfer some of my credits home and that sort of thing.”

  “And what happened?”

  “You’ll never believe it. They grabbed me by the scruff of my black ass and hauled me up before a bunch of double-domes. They unscrambled that affection deal the Ozma Department medicos hypnotically implanted in us before we took off for Luna City. I don’t love you—or any of the rest of the team—anymore, at least not in the same way I used to.”

  “Oh?” Brecht said, looking over at her. “How do you love us now?”

  She grinned. “
You’d be surprised. In actuality, just about the same as before. I’ll have to figure it out, but I still like the whole team fine. Even that bastard Brett-James.”

  “Well, what the hell happened then?” Brecht was curious enough to raise himself up on an elbow and stare at her.

  She shrugged. “What do you think happened? Nothing. They wanted to know if I knew where the damned thing is and I told them no. They wanted to know if there was any way I could wriggle the information out of you. I told them that I doubted it but even if I could I wouldn’t, unless you told me on your own for whatever reason.”

  Brecht continued to stare at her. “And then what happened?”

  “Oh, they tried getting a bit tough. They said my country depended on me, and I asked them in what way. And they said if they had the secret of the location of the space probe they could use it to pry advantages out of the great powers.”

  “Oh, Brother,” Brecht groaned. “What a fouled-up mess that could become.”

  “That’s what I told them,” Azikiwe said. “But they’re so up-tight they couldn’t see it. It looks to me like the whole world is rapidly getting scrambled brains over this.”

  “Yeah,” Brecht said, and lowered himself to his back once more.

  She swung her legs around and sat up, looking at him mischievously. “If it wasn’t for Mary Lou,

  I’ve half a mind to climb in there with you.” He grinned back at her. “No thanks.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  BRECHT SLEPT late, having found it difficult getting to sleep at all.

  When he entered the living room, the others, minus Mary Lou, were all there, finished with breakfast. He went on through to the dining room and poured himself coffee and buttered half a Danish sweet roll. He went back to the living room, eating the roll, sipping at the coffee, and looked about him.

  They seemed quite unrepentant.

  He said conversationally, “The Nigger tells me that at her Embassy they removed the hypnotic suggestion that resulted in our having such an undying affection for one another. Li Ching and His Majesty, too. Right?”