“You too?” The Golem rubbed its chin. Clay flakes fell to the pavement. “I vaz thinking the same.”
“I think I know . . . what is wrong.” The other two eyed the Monster.
“Nu? So don’t keep it to yourself,” the Golem said.
“I have been pondering.” Eyes squinted tight with the stress of the activity. “Pondering hard. What I think is that the season,” the creature declared slowly, “is the reason.”
“Pray tell, explain thyself.” The Afreet was demanding, but polite.
The Monster’s squarish forehead turned slowly. “The brain I was given . . . remembers. This time of year—the sights I see—make me remember. The time is wrong . . . for the command I was given. All . . . wrong. Wrong to kill . . . at the time of Christmas.”
“Kill,” the Afreet echoed. “Strange are the ways of the Prophet, for such was the order I was given. To kill this night two men: one of art and one of learning. Felix Stein and Joseph Rheinberg.”
The Monster and the Golem started and exchanged a look. “I vaz to stamp out Stein alzo,” muttered the Golem, “as vell as a historian name of al-Nomani. Rheinberg is my master.”
“And Stein . . . mine,” added the Monster.
“Fascinating it be,” confessed the Afreet. “For al-Nomani is the one who called me forth.”
“He is one whom I was to . . . slay,” the Monster announced. “And this Rheinberg . . . too.”
The formidable, and formidably bemused, trio pondered this arresting coincidence in silence while cheerful music and the sound of caroling drifted back to them from the street beyond. Though least verbal of the three, it was again the Monster who articulated first.
“Something . . . wrong . . . here. Wrong notion. Wrong time of . . . the year. Everything . . . wrong.”
“Go on, say it again,” the Golem growled. “Not just Christmas it is, but Chanukah also. Not a time for inimical spirits to be stirring. Not even a mouse.”
“The spirit of Ramadan moves within me,” the Afreet declared. “I know not what manner of life or believers you be, but I sense that in this I am of similar mind with you.”
“Then what . . . we . . . do?” the Monster wondered aloud.
They considered.
Stillman blinked snow from his eyes. By now there wasn’t much left of his cap, or his winter coat. He fumbled for the flashlight, somehow wasn’t surprised to find that the supposedly impregnable cylinder of aircraft-grade aluminum had been twisted into a neat pretzel shape.
He saw the cruiser in front of him and began crawling slowly toward it. Nothing inside him seemed to be broken, but every muscle in his bruised body protested at the forced movement. The rotating lights atop the car were beginning to weaken as the battery ran down.
He was a foot from the door when he sensed a presence and looked to his right.
Three immense forms stood staring down at him, each all too familiar from a previous recent encounter. It was impossible to say which of the trio was the most terrifying. A clawed hand reached for him.
“Please,” he whispered through snow-benumbed lips, “no more. Just kill me and get it over with.”
The powerful fingers clutched his jacket front and lifted him as easily as if he were a blank arrest report, setting him gently on his feet. Another huge hand, dark and even-toned as the play clay his little girl made mud pies with, helped keep him upright. Trembling in spite of himself, he looked from one fearsome face to the next.
“I don’t get it. What is this? What are you setting me up for?”
“We need . . . your help,” the Monster mumbled, like a reluctant clog in a main city sewer line.
Stillman hesitated. “
You
need
my
help? That’s a switch.” He brushed dirty snow from his waist and thighs. “What kind of help? To be your punching bag?” He blinked at the Monster. “Uh, sorry about shooting you. You startled me. Heck, you still startle me.”
“I . . . forgive,” the Monster declaimed, sounding exactly like Arnold Schwarzenegger on a bad day.
“Yeah . . . okay, then. Well . . . what did you . . . boys . . . have in mind?”
The Afreet’s eyes burned brightly. “In this time, praise be, is it still among men a crime to set another to commit murder?”
Stillman stiffened slightly. “Damn straight it is. Why do you ask?”
The Afreet glanced at its companions. “We know of several who have done this thing. Should they not, by your mortal laws, be punished for this?”
“You bet they should. You know where these guys are?” All three creatures nodded. Stillman hesitated. “You have proof?”
The Golem dug a fist the size and consistency of a small boulder into its open palm.
“You shouldn’t vorry, policeman. I promise each one a full confession vill sign.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Stillman eyed the stony figure warily. “You’re not talking about obtaining a confession under duress, are you?”
“Vhat,
me
?” The Golem spread treelike arms wide. “My friends and I vill chust a little friendly visit pay them. Each of them.”
Stillman delivered the three badly shaken men to the station by himself. There was no need to call for backup. Not after his hefty acquaintances warned the three outraged but nonetheless compliant tamperers-with-the-laws-of-nature that if any of them so much as ventured an indecent suggestion in the officer’s direction, the improvident speaker would sooner or later find himself on the receiving end of a midnight visit from all three of the . . . visitants. In the face of that monumentally understated threat, the would-be masters of the world proved themselves only too eager to cooperate with the police.
Stillman presented the thoroughly disgruntled experimenters to the duty officer, together with their signed confessions attesting to their respective intentions to murder one another, a collar that was sure to gain him a commendation at the least, and possibly even a promotion. It was worth the aches and pains to see the look on the lieutenant’s face when each prisoner meekly handed over his confession. It further developed that all three men were additionally wanted on various minor charges, from theft of scientific equipment and art supplies to failing to return a six-year-overdue book from the university’s Special Collections Library.
The members of the unnatural trio who had propitiated this notable sequence of events were waiting behind the station to congratulate Stillman when he clocked off duty. He winced as he stretched, studying each of them in turn.
“So . . . what’re you guys gonna do now?” he asked curiously. “If you’d like to hang around the city, I know for a fact you could probably each get a tryout with the Bears.”
“Bears?” the Monster rumbled. “I like to eat bear.”
“No, no. It’s a professional sports team. You know? Pro football? No,” he reflected quietly, “maybe you don’t know.”
“If it be His will, we shall each of us make our way to a place of solitude and contentment. For such as we be, there is a special path for doing so. But we must wait for the coming of day to find the true passageways.”
Stillman nodded. “Seems a shame after what you’ve done tonight to have to hang out here, by yourselves, in this crappy weather.”
Mary Stillman came out of the kitchen to greet her returning husband. She was drying a large serving dish with a beige towel spotted with orange flowers.
“Mary,” Stillman called out, “I’m home! And I’ve brought some friends over for a little late supper. Do we have any of that Christmas turkey left?”
“Urrrrr—Christmas!” the Monster growled like a runaway eighteen-wheeler locking up its brakes at seventy per, and his sentiment if not his words were echoed by his companions.
While the Golem skillfully caught the dish before it struck the floor, the well-mannered Afreet performed the same service for a falling Mary Stillman. When she recovered consciousness and her husband hastily explained matters to her, she nodded slowly and went to see what she could find in the kitchen, whereupon they all shared a very nice late-night snack indeed, wholly in keeping with the spirit of the Seasons.
NASA SENDING ADDICTS TO MARS!
Giant Government Cover-up Revealed!
Okay, so I inhaled. Twice. That’s all, honest. Not
that I have anything against the stuff. It’s just not my
baggie.
Hypocrisy is as all-American as burgers and fries,
apple pie and ice cream, Washington and slaves. For all
the good things we espouse in America, we can’t seem to
get beyond wanting others to do as we do—whether they
want to or not. When it comes to the business of recreational pharmaceuticals, the jury is still out. Cocaine is
bad, coca tea is good. Opium is bad, morphine is good.
Too much alcohol is bad, just enough is okay, none is
better—have a Bud.
Now state after state teeters on the cusp of legalizing
marijuana for medical use. My own feeling is that if I’ve
got cancer, it doesn’t matter if some stiff-nosed specialist
in the Surgeon General’s office proclaims the scientific
virtues of THC or not—I’m gonna smoke and drink and
pop whatever I damn well please, and don’t let it bug you
’cause I’ll likely be dead soon enough.
On the other hand, if the medicinal virtues of the weed
turn out to have a firm foundation scientifically, so much
the better for those who suffer from lack of it. No telling
to what good it might be put . . .
“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States!”
Someone in the presidential party had thoughtfully brought along their CD of “Hail to the Chief,” just in case one happened to be lacking at Mission Control. The familiar music filtered through the intercom system as the tight knot of Secret Service men escorted their charge into the room, not unlike a cluster of nervous remoras convoying a shark. Played back over the intercom system, the march sounded tinny.
An unpatriotic thought at what should be a moment of great national pride, Hepworth knew. A glance at MacDonald and Tetsugawa showed that they shared his nervousness.
Following the initial curious look at the chief executive, the members of the mission team had returned to work, their attention focused purposefully on their instrumentation. Not all of them shared the secret that had been so strenuously guarded by Mission Command. With luck, that secret might be maintained for another day, another week. A great deal depended on how the president reacted.
Time enough to worry about that later. At the moment there were greetings to be exchanged, additional preparations to be made. Hepworth was making his own notes on what the president was wearing, whether his shoes were shined, how firm his handgrip was, and how genuine the easygoing, down-home grin so familiar from hundreds of telecasts was. It was important for Hepworth to memorize these details because his kids were sure to grill him on them the moment he got home. Not every kid on the block could boast about the day his dad met the president.
He thought Tetsugawa and MacDonald handled it better. Older and more experienced, they were used to the diplomatic niceties required on the bureaucratic circuit. To MacDonald, the president was only an ex-senator with bigger lifts in his heels. To Tetsugawa, he was a banker with access to unlimited largess.
A voice interrupted his reverie. “We’re ready to transmit, Mr. Hepworth.”
“Thanks, Rusty.” Stepping forward, he found it surprisingly easy to pull the president away from the circle of sycophants into which he’d been drawn like a ship in a maelstrom. “We’re ready for you now, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Warren.” You were instantly on a firstname basis, which made you feel at once important and at ease, Hepworth noted admiringly. Just like his cheery next-door neighbor Steve Beckwith inquiring yet again if he could borrow the power mower.
Extracting his notes from a coat pocket, the president quietly cleared his throat and regarded his audience as the engineers concluded their final tests. Only when all was in readiness did he advance slightly in the direction of the microphone and begin to read from his prepared statement.
“Gentlemen and lady of the first manned mission to Mars, it is my very great pleasure to greet you on this first morning of the greatest achievement in the history of America and mankind’s space program. By now the whole world has thrilled to the story of your successful landing on that ancient and mysterious world, which henceforth must be mysterious no longer. As in the coming weeks you probe its dusty red secrets . . .”
Hepworth listened with one ear. Certainly it was a speech of considerable historical import, one right up there with “One Small Step for Mankind,” but other concerns preyed on his mind. He should have been relaxed. The interminably long spiraling journey out to the Red Planet, the anxiety attending the descent when unexpectedly strong winds threatened to turn the touchdown at Hellas to tragedy; all were behind them now. Nevertheless, the future of the expedition was far from assured.
The president droned on, relishing the moment. Hepworth automatically scanned the readings on the most important screens. To his relief, one in particular remained monotonously unchanged. Only the Mission Command physicians would be sensitive to the elevated readings of certain gauges, to the unusual respiratory patterns everyone at Command had grown accustomed to since the
Barsoom
’s departure from Earth orbit. Certainly there was no one in the president’s immediate entourage knowledgeable enough about such matters to notice that anything might be amiss.
Eventually, the president concluded his official message of congratulations. Now they had to wait for the crew to compose their response. Ah, the response. Hepworth suddenly wished he were somewhere else. But he was the voice of Mission Control, and there was nowhere for him to hide.
While waiting, he paced aimlessly among the instrumented aisles, trying to avoid members of the official party. Let MacDonald and Tetsugawa make small talk with them. He leaned over one console festooned with dials and readouts and half a dozen flat-screen monitors. The operator checked an earphone and turned to grin at him.
“Fuentes just scored on a five-yard plunge. We’re tied with Pittsburgh twenty-one all going into the fourth quarter.”
“Thanks, Mel.” Hepworth moved on, feeling better. So far it had been a rough season for the local team. You’d think that with a hundred-plus screens in Mission Control someone could figure out a way to rig one to secretly pick up network broadcasts.
All of a sudden it was time; by the clock, and by simple physics. He took his place and waited. The big monitor on the wall crackled and cleared. They had to use the big screen this time. The president’s team had insisted, and as a result there was no way to avoid it.
The panoramic view that materialized was remarkably sharp and detailed. It did not look especially alien. Rocky, ochre-tinted hills poked into a pink sky. Overhead, a single fragile cloud struggled to keep from dissipating in the rarefied atmosphere. As always, there were a few gasps from the newcomers in the audience. A live television picture from Mars, especially when viewed on the big projection screen, was still a sight to inspire awe in the most jaded viewer.
A figure wandered into view and waved at the camera pickup. Hepworth immediately recognized the lanky form of Gregorski, the mission geologist. The lightweight Martian suit clung to parts of his frame, reminding everyone how far removed the environment of the Red Planet was from barren Luna.
Gregorski waved again, then executed another gesture that distance fortunately rendered ambivalent. Glancing to his left, Hepworth saw MacDonald wince. One of the president’s aides squinted uncertainly at the big screen but held his peace when no one else said anything.
The geologist did a slow forward roll in the light gravity and landed triumphantly on his feet. So far not too bad, Hepworth thought. The president was murmuring to an assistant and looking content.
There was a flash-interrupt. It was followed by a second, and then the screen cleared again. They were inside the lander now, the camera panning to show the interior of the main cabin. Food and equipment lay strewn about, poorly stowed. That was to be expected, though. Everyone on Earth knew how rough the wind-whipped touchdown had been.
Then a face was grinning into the pickup. Several onlookers started involuntarily. The sudden appearance of a five-foot-high nose can be disconcerting. The nose was quite red, but brief exposure to Martian sunlight could do that. It could, Hepworth told himself insistently.
The nose retreated, to find itself surrounded by the other facial features of Mission Commander Swansea. The colonel rubbed his burgundy-hued proboscis, unaware that in the process he’d slightly smudged the expensive pickup lens, and grinned.
Behind him they could see the two other members of the landing team, Oakley and Preston. For a moment, Hepworth thought everything was going to be all right. Then he saw that Oakley’s flight suit was unzipped all the way to her thighs. It wasn’t obvious because she was facing away from the pickup, but Hepworth’s trained eye picked up the telltale clues immediately. Nearby, he heard Tetsugawa inhale sharply.
Please, he thought frantically. Say thank you, give greetings, be profound if you must, but get off camera as fast as you can.
Preston turned from his console to face the pickup, weaving only slightly. A condition fortuitously ascribable to the light gravity, Hepworth knew.
No such luck.
“Heyyy, good buddy!” Preston was smiling at Swansea, neglecting to address him as commander. “Whatta you know? It’s the president. The goddamn farking president.” The colonel swayed toward the pickup. “Yo, Pres! How’s it goin’, man?”
Hepworth found that he had begun to sweat.
Swansea pulled back. “Farrrrr outtttt. What’s happenin’ down yousaways, noble Earth creatures?”
Perhaps, Hepworth thought desperately, the president would ascribe the mission commander’s response to a personal desire on the part of a famous minority American to address his own community in colloquial fashion at a moment of personal triumph.
The president was frowning uncertainly at an aide. He couldn’t reply, of course. He’d delivered his own message of greeting earlier. Because of the time delay all he could do now, all any of them could do, was watch and listen.
Hepworth looked to MacDonald, but the engineer only shrugged. His finger hovered over the button that could halt reception, but it did not descend. An abrupt cutoff would require explanations, and that would invariably be worse than the truth.
They’d all discussed many times what could be done if this happened. The general consensus was that they’d have to ride it out and pray none of the mission members became abusive or insulting. With everyone in mission control watching the big screen, any kind of comprehensive cover-up was out of the question.
Turning, he could see the network reporters behind the soundproof glass. Many of them had been covering the space program for a good portion of their careers, but they’d never heard anything like this. More than one jaw had sagged at Swansea’s comments. Behind the television people the print reporters looked torn; uncertain whether to run and file what they’d seen, or wait to see what else might develop.
“He can’t tell you what’s happening, freako,” Preston announced from his station. “Time delay.”
“Oh, riiiight.” Swansea took no umbrage at the correction. He looked very happy as he turned back to the pickup.
“Say, Mistah President. We wish you was heah. How about a weather report? You want a weather report? We does some baaad-ass weather reports.” He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, sweet thang. Lay some weather on the Man.”
“Sweet thing?” The president whispered to the secretary of state. “Is that Major Oakley’s official nickname?”
Lander copilot and chief biologist Oakley was speaking. “Well, Mr. President, sugar, it’s pretty damn cold outside right now, and that’s the Nome of the game.” She giggled. “If you really want to know, the weather sucks and it’ll be a cold day in Hellas before any of us do any sunbathing. Could ski, if we had any snow, which we don’t. Lousy friggin’ couple centimeters of ice.” She swayed slightly as she grabbed at a pickup. It took her three tries to get ahold of it.
“Hey, Hanover, you lazy good-for-nuthin’ orbitin’ mothergrabber! How come they put us down on a cold slope with no snow?”
This demand was followed by an inarticulate gargle. Somewhere in the vast chamber that was Mission Control, a technician had begun to laugh. He was hurriedly shushed. Meanwhile Hanover, alone up in the orbiter, could be heard singing something about cockles and mussels, alive, alive-ho. Hanover was the possessor of three advanced degrees and a lousy singing voice.
Oakley could be seen batting the flexible pickup aside. “Lazy mothergrabber,” she mumbled. “When we get back up there I’m gonna kick his ass.” She started to turn and rise.
As she did so, her unzipped flightsuit parted. It was instantly apparent that the major was not wearing her regulation flightsuit undergarments. In fact, she was wearing no undergarments whatsoever. Whistles echoed through Mission Control until a fumbling Preston could organize her accoutrements.
The president stared at the screen in stony silence while upstairs, frantic technicians tried to edit a shot that had already gone out. One Secret Serviceman fought to repress a smile.
“Cool it, sweets,” Preston could be overheard telling her. “We’re on TV.”
“Yeah. The boob tube.” Oakley grinned, apparently in no wise abashed by her recent unscientific disclosures.
“It certainly seems to be a happy crew,” the president finally commented.
MacDonald ventured a wan smile. “Attitude is crucial on such a long journey, Mr. President.”
Swansea had slipped out of range of the visual pickup. Now he returned, puffing on a cigarette and waving lazily at the lens. “Uh, we got to sign off now, Mr. President. Work to be done and time waits for no man,
comprende
? Tell everybody back home that we loves them and that we’re givin’ our all for the good ol’ U.S. of A., hey?” Behind him, Oakley was giggling again. Something about giving it to her instead of to the U.S. of A.