The Puppet Masters (22 page)

I could have told him the same thing without the double talk; a master who has been out of touch always gets into direct conference as soon as possible.

“Hypothesis!” Vargas snorted. “Pure hypothesis—they have no opportunity to reproduce just now. George!” He ordered the boss of the handling crew to bring in another ape.

“Little Abe?” asked the crew boss.

“No, I want one which is not supporting a parasite. Let me see—make it Old Red.”

The crew boss glanced at the gibbons, looked away at once, and said, “Gripes, Doc, I’d rather you didn’t pick on Old Red.”

“This won’t hurt him.”

“Why can’t I bring in Satan? He’s a mean bastard anyway.”

“All right, all right! But hurry it up; you are keeping Dr. McIlvaine waiting.”

So they brought in Satan, a coal black chimp. He may have been aggressive elsewhere; he was not so here. They dumped him inside, he took one look around, shrank back against the door, and began to whine. It was like watching an execution; I could not stand to look but I couldn’t look away. I had had my nerves under control—a man can get used to anything; there are people who make their livings by pumping out cesspools—but the ape’s hysteria was contagious. I wanted to run.

At first the hag-ridden apes did nothing; they simply stared at him like a jury. It went on that way for a long while. Satan’s whines changed to low, sobbing moans and he covered his face with his hands. Presently Vargas said, “Doctor! Look!”

“Where?”

“Lucy—the old female. There.” He pointed.

It was the matriarch of the family of consumptive gibbons. Her back was toward us; I could see that the slug thereon had humped itself together. An iridescent line ran down the center of it.

It began to split as an egg splits. In a few minutes only, the division was complete. One new slug centered itself over her spine; the other flowed down her back. She was squatting, buttocks almost to the floor; it slithered off and plopped gently on the concrete.

It crept slowly toward Satan. The ape must have peeked through his fingers, for he screamed hoarsely—and swarmed up into the top of the cage.

So help me, they sent a squad to arrest him. Four of the biggest—two gibbons, a chimp, and a baboon. They tore him loose and hauled him down and held him face down on the floor.

The slug slithered closer.

It was a good two feet away when it grew a pseudopod—slowly, at first—a slimy stalk that weaved around like a cobra. Then it lashed out and struck the ape on the foot. The others promptly let go of him but Satan did not move.

The titan seemed to pull itself in by the extension it had formed and attached itself to Satan’s foot. From there it crawled up; when it reached the base of his spine the ape stirred. Before it was settled at the top of his back Satan sat up. He shook himself and joined the others, stopping only to look us over.

Vargas and McIlvaine started talking excitedly, apparently quite unmoved otherwise. I wanted to smash something—for me, for Satan, for the whole simian race.

Vargas was insisting that nothing had been proved, while McIlvaine maintained that we were seeing something new to our concepts; an intelligent creature which was, by the fashion in which it was organized, immortal and continuous in its personal identity—or its group identity; the argument grew confused. In any case McIlvaine was theorizing that such a creature would have continuous memory of all its experiences, not just from the moment of fission, but back to its racial beginning. He described the slug as a four dimensional worm in space-time, intertwined with itself as a single organism, and the talk grew so esoteric as to be silly.

As for me, I did not know and did not care. All very interesting, no doubt, but the only way I cared about slugs was to kill them. I wanted to kill them, early and often and as many as possible.

About that uninterrupted “racial memory” idea: wouldn’t it be rather cumbersome to be able to recall exactly what you did the second Wednesday in March a million years ago?

F
or
a wonder, when I got back the Old Man was available and wanted to talk. The President had left to address a secret session of the United Nations and the Old Man had not been included in the party. I wondered if he had fallen out of official favor, but I did not say so.

He had me report fully on what I had seen at the zoo and questioned me closely; he had not been down there himself. I added my opinion of Vargas and McIlvaine. “A couple of boy scouts,” I complained, “comparing stamp collections. They don’t realize it’s serious.”

The Old Man took time out before answering. “Don’t sell those boys short, son,” he advised me. “They are more likely to come up with the answer than are you and I.”

“Humph!” I said, or something stronger. “They are more likely to let those slugs escape. Remember Graves?”

“I do remember Graves. You don’t understand scientific detachment.”

“I hope I never do!”

“You won’t. But it’s the ignition system of the world; without it, we’re sunk. Matter of fact, they did let one escape.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t they tell you about the elephant?”

“What elephant? They damn near didn’t tell me anything; they got interested in each other and ignored me.”

“Sure that’s not what’s biting you? About the elephant: an ape with a rider got out, somehow. Its body was found trampled to death in the elephant house. And one of the elephants was gone.”

“You mean there is an elephant loose
with a slug on him
?” I had a horrid vision of what that could mean—something like a tank with a cybernetic brain.

“Her,” the Old Man corrected me, “it was a cow elephant. I didn’t say so, anyhow. They found her over in Maryland, quietly pulling up cabbages. No parasite.”

“Where did the slug get to?” Involuntarily I glanced around. The Old Man chuckled.

“Don’t worry; I don’t have it in here. But a duo was stolen in the adjoining village. I’d say the slug is somewhere west of the Mississippi by now.”

“Anybody missing?”

He shrugged again. “How can you tell, in a free country? At least, the titan can’t hide on a human host anywhere short of Zone Red.”

That seemed true; Schedule Bare Back appeared to be operating one hundred percent. That made me think of something else, something I had seen at the zoo and had not reasoned through. Whatever it was, it eluded me. The Old Man went on, “It’s taken drastic action to make the bare-shoulders order stick, though. The President has had a flood of protests on moral grounds, not to mention the National Association of Men’s Haberdashers.”

“Huh?”

“You would think we were trying to sell their daughters down to Rio, the way some of them carry on. There was a delegation in, called themselves The Mothers of the Republic, or some such nonsense.”

“The President’s time is being wasted like
that
, at a time like
this
?”

“McDonough handled them. But he roped me in on it, damn his eyes.” The Old Man looked pained. “We told them that they could not see the President unless they stripped absolutely naked. That stopped ’em.”

The thought that had been bothering me came to the surface. “Say, boss, you might have to.”

“‘Have to’ what?”

“Make people strip naked.”

He chewed his lip and looked worried. “What are you driving at?”

“Do we know, as a certainty, that a slug can attach itself to its host only near the base of the brain?”

“You should know, better than I do.”

“I thought I did, but now I’m not sure. That’s the way we always did it, when I was, uh, with them.” I recounted again, in more detail, what I had seen when Vargas had had poor old Satan exposed to a slug. “That ape moved as soon as the thing reached the base of his spine, clear down at his tail bone. Maybe they prefer to ride up near the brain—I’m sure they do. But maybe they don’t have to. Maybe they could ride down inside a man’s pants and just put out an extension to the end of his spinal cord.”

“Hmm…you’ll remember, son, that the first time I had a crowd searched for one I made everybody peel clear down to the buff. That was not accidental; I wanted to be sure.”

“I think you were justified. See here; they might be able to conceal themselves anywhere on the body, if they have to. Inside a pair of shorts, for example. Of course you couldn’t hide anything under some shorts—” I was thinking of the skin-tight things that Mary wore. “—but take those droopy drawers you’ve got on. One could hide in them and it would just make you look a bit satchel fannied—a bit more, I should say.”

“Want me to take ’em off?”

“I can do better than that; I’ll give you the Kansas City Clutch.” My words were joking but I was not; I grabbed at the bunchiness of his pants and made sure he was clean. If he had not been, he would have contorted and gone unconscious had I clutched a parasite. He submitted to it with good grace, then gave me the same treatment.

“But we can’t,” he complained as he sat down, “go around slapping women on the rump. It won’t do.”

“You may have to,” I pointed out, “or make everybody strip.”

“We’ll run some experiments.”

“How?” I asked.

“You know that head-and-spine armor deal? It’s not worth much, except to give a feeling of security to anybody who bothers to wear one. I’ll tell Doctor Horace to take an ape, fit an armor to him so that a slug can’t reach anything but his legs, say—and see what happens. Or use some other method to limit the area of attack, and vary the areas, too. We’ll find out.”

“Uh, yes. But don’t have him use an ape, boss.”

“Why not?”

“Well—they’re too human.”

“Damn it, bub, you can’t make an omelet—”

“—without breaking eggs. Okay, okay, but I don’t have to like it. Anyhow, we’ll find out.”

I could see that he did not like what he was thinking. “I hope it turns out that you are wrong. Yes, sir, I surely do. It has been hard enough to get their shirts off; I’d hate like the very deuce to try to get ’em to take off their drawers as well.” He looked worried.

“Well, maybe it won’t be necessary.”

“I hope not.”

“By the way, we’re moving back to the old nest.”

“How about the New Philadelphia hide-out?” I asked.

“We’ll keep both. This war may go on a long time.”

“Speaking of such, what have you got for me now?”

“Well, now, as I said, this is likely to prove a long war. Why don’t you take some leave? Indefinite—I’ll call you back when I need you.”

“You always have,” I pointed out. “Is Mary going on leave?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I asked you a straight question. Boss.”

“Mary is on duty, with the President.”

“Why? She’s done her job, and nobly. You aren’t depending on her being able to smell out a slug, not if I know you. You don’t need her as a guard; she’s too good an agent to waste on such work.”

“See here—when did you get so big that you are telling me how to use other agents? Answer that and make it good.”

“Oh, skip it, skip it,” I told him, my temper very much out of hand. “Let it lay that if Mary isn’t taking leave, I don’t want leave—and none of your business why.”

“That’s a nice girl.”

“Did I say she wasn’t? Keep your nose out of my affairs. In the meantime, give me a job to do.”

“I say you need to take leave.”

“So you can make damn sure that I don’t have any free time when Mary has? What is this? A YWCA?”

“I say you need leave because you are worn out.”

“Hunh!”

“You are a fair-to-good agent when you are in shape. Right now you aren’t; you’ve been through too much. No, shut up and listen: I send you out on a simple assignment. Penetrate an occupied city, look it over and see everything there is to see and report back by a certain time. What do you do? You are so jittery that you hang around in the suburbs and are afraid to go downtown. You don’t keep your eyes open and you damn near get caught three times. Then when you do head back, you get so nervy that you burn out your ship and fail to get back in time to be of any use. Your nerve is shot and your judgment with it. Take leave—sick leave, in fact.”

I stood there with my ears burning. He did not directly blame me for the failure of Schedule Counter Blast but he might as well have. I felt that it was unfair—and yet I knew that there was truth in it. My nerves used to be like rock, and now my hands trembled when I tried to strike a cigarette.

Nevertheless he let me have an assignment—the first and only time I have ever won an argument with him.

A hell of an assignment—I spent the next several days lecturing to brass, answering fool questions about what titans eat for lunch, explaining how to tackle a man who was possessed. I was billed as an “expert” but half the time my pupils seemed sure that they knew more about slugs than I did.

Why do people cherish their preconceptions? Riddle me that.

O
peration
Parasite seemed to come to a dead stop during this period. The titans continued to hold Zone Red, but they could not break out without being spotted. And we did not try to break in for the good reason that every slug held one of our own people as hostage. It was a situation which might go on for a long time.

The United Nations were no help. The President wanted a simple act of cooperation—Schedule Bare Back on a global scale. They hemmed and hawed and sent the matter to committee for investigation. The plain truth was they did not believe us; that was always the enemy’s great advantage—only the burned believed in the fire.

Some nations were safe from the slugs through their own customs. A Finn who did not strip down and climb into a steam bath, in company, every day or so would have been conspicuous. The Japanese, too, were casual about undressing. The South Seas were relatively safe, as were large parts of Africa. France had gone enthusiastically nudist, on weekends at least, right after World War III—a slug would have a tough time hiding in France.

But in countries where the body-modesty taboo meant something a slug could stay hidden until his host began to stink. The United States itself, Canada—England, most particularly England. “Aren’t you getting excited over nothing, old chap? Take off my weskit? Now, really!”