The Crack In Space (17 page)

The vidphone rang and Tito Cravelli rose to answer it. After a few moments he returned. ‘That was my contact at TD. At this moment, while we’re sitting here muttering pointless maledictions, Pekes are pouring through the rent.’

Everyone in the room stared at him.

‘That’s right,’ Tito said, nodding. ‘So already now the TD administration building is full of them; in fact they’re beginning to leak out into downtown Washington, D.C. Leon Turpin’s been conversing with President Schwarz, but so far  . . .’ He shrugged. ‘They erected a concrete barrier in front of the rent but the Pekes simply moved the rent to one side. And kept on coming across.’ He added, ‘Bohegian, my contact, is leaving the TD building; they’re being evacuated.’

‘Christ,’ Sal Heim said. ‘Christ, sweet shimmering Christ.’

Pat Heim said, ‘You know who I’d like to see you talk to?’ She glanced around at the others. ‘Bill Smith.’

‘Who’s that?’ Cravelli asked sharply. ‘Oh yeah. The Peke. That anthropologist Dillingsworth has him. What could Bill Smith tell us?’

‘He would know what they lack,’ Patricia said. ‘Maybe for instance they’ve been trying for a dozen centuries to achieve a space drive. We could turn a small rocket engine over to them, one with only a million pounds of thrust or so. Or maybe they don’t have music. Think what it would mean: We could start them out with single instruments such as the harmonica or the jew’s harp or the electric guitar  . . .’

‘Yes,’ Cravelli agreed acidly, ‘But George Walt have already done that. At least, we’ve got to assume that. You heard that Peke talking Latin; I didn’t grasp, really genuinely grasp, how much George Walt have accomplished until I heard that  . . . then I threw in the sponge. I don’t mind admitting it; that’s when I gave up, pure and simple.’

‘And decided to plead for a deal,’ Sal Heim said, half to himself.

‘That’s right,’ Cravelli said. ‘Then I knew we had to come to some kind of terms. It didn’t terrify you to hear Sinanthropus talking Latin? It should have.’

‘I’ve got it,’ Pat Heim said. ‘That one Sinanthropus, that old white-haired so-called philosopher up in the satellite, he’s a mutant. More evolved than the others, greater cranial area or something, especially in the forehead region. Unique. George Walt are pulling the wool over our eyes.’

‘But they are pouring through the nexus rent,’ Cravelli said coldly. ‘Whether they speak Latin or don’t. If Leon Turpin has ordered the TD administration building evacuated, you know it’s critical.’

‘I’ve got it,’ Pat said, ‘Oh my god, I’ve really got it. Listen to me. Let’s turn the Smithsonian Institute over to the Pekes in exchange for them leaving. What about that?’

‘Institution,’ Cravelli said, correcting her.

‘And if that’s not enough,’ Pat said, ‘we’ll throw in the Library of Congress. They’d be smart to take that. What an offer!’

‘You know,’ Sal said, hunching forward and gazing steadily down at his knees, ‘she may have something there. Look what they’d get out of that; the entire assembled, collected artifacts and knowledge of our culture. A hell of a lot more—incredibly much more—than George Walt can give them. It’s the wisdom of four thousand years. Boy, I tell you; I’d take it in a second if it were offered to me.’

After a long pause Tito Cravelli said, ‘But we’re forgetting something. None of us are in a position to make the Pekes any kind of offer; none of us hold any official position in the government. Now, if you were already in office, Jim  . . .’

‘Take it to Schwarz,’ Sal said.

‘We’d have to,’ Pat agreed rapidly. ‘And that means going to the White House, since the phone lines are all tied up. Which one of us would Schwarz be willing to see? Assuming he’d see any of us.’

Sal said, ‘It would have to be Jim.’

Shrugging, Jim Briskin said, ‘I’ll go. It’s better than merely sitting around here talking.’ It all seemed futile to him anyhow. But at least this way he’d be doing something.

‘Who’re you going to take the offer to ultimately?’ Cravelli asked him. ‘Bill Smith?’

‘No,’ Jim said. ‘To that white-haired Sinanthropic philosopher up in the satellite.’ Obviously, he was the one to go to; he held the power.

‘George Walt aren’t going to like it when they hear it,’ Cravelli pointed out. ‘You’ll have to talk fast; they’ll do their best to shut you up.’

‘I know,’ Jim said, rising to his feet and moving toward the door. ‘I’ll phone you from Washington and let you know how I made out.’

As he left the apartment, he heard Sal saying, ‘I think, though, we ought to take the Spirit of St Louis out when the Pekes aren’t looking and keep it. They won’t know it’s gone; what do they know about airplanes?’

‘And the Wright brothers’ plane,’ Pat said, as he started to shut the door after him. He paused, then, as he heard her ‘Do you think he’ll get in to see President Schwarz?’

‘Not a chance,’ Sal said emphatically. ‘But what else can we do? It’s the best we could come up with on such short notice.’

‘He’ll get in,’ Cravelli disagreed. ‘I’ll make you a dime bet.’

‘You know what else we could have offered?’ Pat said. ‘The Washington Monument.’

‘What the hell would the Pekes do with that?’ Sal demanded.

Jim shut the door after him and walked down the corridor to the elevator. None of them, he reflected, had offered to come with him. But what difference did it make? There was nothing they could do vis-a-vis President Schwarz  . . . and perhaps nothing he could do, either. And even if he did get in to see Schwarz, and even if Schwarz went along with the idea—how far did that carry him? What were the chances that he could sell the Sinanthropic philosopher on the idea with George Walt present?

But I’m still going to try it, he decided. Because the alternative, a general war, would doom our colonists there on the other side; it’s their lives we’re trying to save.

And anyhow, he realized, none of us wants to start slaughtering the Peking people. It would be too much like the old days, back among our cave-dwelling ancestors. Back to their level. We must have grown out of that by now, he said to himself. And if we haven’t—what does it matter who wins?

Four hours later, from a public vidphone booth in downtown Washington, D.C., Jim Briskin called back to report. He felt bone-weary and more than a little depressed, but at least the first hurdle had been jumped successfully.

‘So he liked the idea,’ Tito Cravelli said.

Jim said, ‘Schwarz is madly grasping at any straw he can find, and there aren’t even very many of them. Everyone in Washington is prepared to shoot down the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite, of course; they’ll do that if my attempt at negotiation fails, my attempt to split George Walt off from the Pekes.’

‘If we shoot down the satellite,’ Cravelli said, ‘then we’d have to fight to the bitter death. Either our race or theirs would be wiped out, and we can’t have that, not in this day and age. With the weapons we’ve got and what they possibly have  . . .’

‘Schwarz realizes that. He appreciates all the nuances of the situation. But he can’t just sit idle while Pekes pour across at will. We’re walking a highly tricky line. It’s not in our interest to make this into a full-scale hydrogen bomb war, and yet we don’t want simply to capitulate. Schwarz says to go ahead with the Smithsonian, but to hold back on the Library of Congress as long as possible, to give it up only under the greatest pressure. I tend to agree.’ He added, ‘They’re sending me up there; I’ll do it myself.’

‘Why you? What’s the matter with the State Department? Don’t they have anyone who can do that sort of work any more?

‘I asked to go.’

‘You’re nuts. George Walt hates you already.’

‘Yes,’ Jim agreed, ‘but I think I know how to handle this; I’ve got an idea of how I can impair the relationship between George Walt and the Pekes in such a way that it can’t be repaired. Anyhow, it’s worth a try.’

‘Don’t tell me what your idea is,’ Cravelli said. ‘Tell me after it works. If it doesn’t work, don’t tell me at all.’

Jim grinned starkly. ‘You’re a hard man. You might be too ruthless as Attorney General; I’ll have to rethink that, possibly.’

‘It’s signed and sealed,’ Cravelli said. ‘You can’t get out of it. Good luck up on the satellite.’ He rang off, then.

Leaving the phone booth, Jim Briskin walked along the half-deserted sidewalk until he came to a parked, empty jet-hopper.

‘Take me to the Golden Door satellite,’ he said, opening the door and getting in.

‘The Golden Door is closed down,’ the ‘hopper driver said languidly. ‘No more girls up there. Just some goof broadcasting that he’s king of the world or some crazy thing like that.’ He turned to face Jim. ‘However, I know a gnuvvy doggone place in the north west side of town that I can  . . .’

‘The satellite,’ Jim said. ‘Okay? Just drive the ‘hopper and let me decide where I want to go.’

‘You Cols,’ the driver muttered as he started the ‘hopper up. ‘You sure always got a chip on your shoulder. All right, buddy, have it your way. But you’re going to be disappointed when you get up there.’

Silently, Jim leaned back against the seat and sat waiting as the ‘hopper rose into the sky.

At the landing field on the satellite, George Walt personally met him, hand outstretched. ‘This is George,’ the head said, as Jim shook hands with whichever of them it was. ‘I knew they’d want to talk terms, but I didn’t expect them to send you, Briskin.’

‘This is Walt,’ the head said then, belligerently. ‘I certainly have no desire to do business with you, Briskin. Go back and tell them  . . .’ The mouth struggled as both brothers sought to make use of it simultaneously.

‘What does it matter who they send?’ the head—no doubt George, now—said at last. ‘Come below to the office, Briskin, where we can make ourselves comfortable. I have a hunch this darn business might take quite a while.’

It was extraordinary how much George Walt had aged. They had a wrinkled, brittle, almost frail quality about them, and when they walked they moved slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of falling, as if they were terribly infirm. What would account for this? Jim wondered. And then he understood. George Walt were now jerries. One hundred years had passed for them since he had last seen them. He wondered how much longer they could keep going. Certainly not for too great a period. But their mental energies were undimmed. He could still sense the enormous alertness emanating from them; they remained as formidable as ever.

In George Walt’s office sat the huge, white-haired old Sinanthropus; he watched warily from beneath his beetling brows as Jim Briskin entered, obviously suspicious at once. It would be no easy task, Jim realized, to come to terms with this man. Mistrust was profoundly written on his massive-jawed, sloping face.

‘We’ve got them where we want them,’ George Walt said expansively to the Sinanthropus. ‘This man’s coming up here—Jim Briskin is his name—verifies it.’ Both eyes flamed with gloating.

In a hoarse voice, the Sinanthropus said, ‘What will you offer us if we abandon your world?’

Jim Briskin said, ‘That which we prize beyond everything else. Our most valued possession.’

The Sinanthropus and George Walt watched him fixedly.

‘The Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.,’ Jim said.

‘Wait a minute’ / ‘We’re not interested in that!’ George Walt said together. ‘That won’t do; that’s out of the question. We want political and economic priority over the North American land mass—otherwise the invasion continues. What kind of offer is the Smithsonian? That’s nothing but a museum.’ / ‘Who wants a museum? This is ridiculous!’ Both eyes blazed with outraged and uneasy anger.

The Sinanthropus, however, said slowly and distinctly, ‘I am reading Mr Briskin’s mind, and I am interested. Please be silent. Wind God, it goes without saying that your opinion is valuable, but it is I who must make the actual decision.’

‘The conference is over!’ / ‘I’ve heard enough,’ George Walt said. ‘Go back below to Terra, Briskin; you’re not wanted here.’ / ‘Let’s call this off.’

‘There is, in the back of your mind,’ the Sinanthropus said to Jim, ‘the thought that you will, if pressed, add in the Library of Congress. I will consider that offer as well.’

‘We’d prefer not to add that,’ Jim said, ‘but if we have to, we have to.’ He felt resigned.

‘Goodbye, Briskin,’ George Walt said. ‘See you some time. It’s evident that you’re trying to make a side deal, here, trying to cut my brother and me out. But we won’t be cut out’ The head added emphatically, ‘I agree. You’re completely wasting your time, Briskin.’ One of George Walt’s four arms was extended, then, ‘Until next time.’

‘Until next time,’ Jim said, shaking hands. Taking a deep, unsteady breath he all at once yanked with every dyne of strength which he could muster; the hand and arm came loose from the artificial body and he was left holding them.

Bewildered, the Sinanthropus said, ‘Wind God, it seems strange to me that your arm is detachable.’

‘This is no Wind God,’ Jim Briskin said. ‘You’ve been misled. Our people were, too, for a good long time. This is an ordinary man with an extra, artificial body.’ He pointed to the wiring visible within the gaping shoulder.

‘A Homo sapiens, you mean?’ the stooped old Sinanthropus said. ‘Like yourself?’ Slow but exact comprehension began to form in his reddish eyes.

‘Not only is he not a Wind God,’ Jim said, ‘but he’s been for decades the owner of a  . . . I dislike naming it outright.’

‘Name it!’

‘Let’s simply call it a house of pleasure. He’s a businessman. No more, no less.’

‘I can think of nothing more obnoxious to the mores of my people,’ the Sinanthropus said to George Walt, ‘than a hoax of this stripe. You swore to us that you were our Wind God. And in fulfillment of many myths, your unusual anatomy seemed to prove it.’ He panted slowly, raggedly.

‘ "Unusual",’ George Walt echoed. ‘You mean unique. In all of the parallel Earths—and God knows exactly how many there may be—you won’t find anyone, anyone at all, like me.’ He amended quickly, ‘Like us, rather. And consider this satellite. What do you think keeps it up? The wind, of course; how else could it stay up here, month after month? Obviously I control the wind, as I told you. Otherwise this satellite would . . .’