The Embedding

TWENTY-TWO

“Don’t fret about it, Pierre,” said Sole lamely, as the long-awaited helicopter came down at last upon the village. “What Kayapi did might have been the right thing, in Xemahoa terms—he had to find some answer to the presence of that monster, damn it! I know it made me throw up. But mightn’t it still have been the right thing to do? Sometimes the right thing is the thing that makes us sick—”

“Kayapi—” the Frenchman spat out.

“—may be a Xemahoa genius.”

“—is a vile opportunist, a dirty little village Hitler.”

“Crap, Pierre. It’s like you said earlier—he’s a myth-maker, a cultural strongman. And I’ll tell you something else. We have to act in a ruthless manner too—not for one Indian village but for the whole damn planet.”

“Words, words—”

“If what we need to do involves taking somebody’s brain out of their head—”

The helicopter landed. It wasn’t piloted by the Texan nor did it carry Chase or Billy—but pilot and passenger had the same clear-cut Mormon uniformity of the Soft War Corps that even the Negro Chester managed to fit, with his slick-carved souvenir features; though as he ran up now he resembled a distraught Queequeg with his eternal harpoon. Tom Zwingler emerged from Pierre’s hut, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Zwingler?”

“Thank God for that! You’re from Franklin? What happened?”

The passenger ignored the question.

“Why’s the sky dark at night then, Zwingler?”

“Universe is expanding,” Tom Zwingler smiled as a world of comforting certainties, codewords and organization reasserted itself for him. But an uncertain look came over his face as he took in the brusque hostility in the other man’s tone.

His smile wasn’t returned.

“You’re to evacuate with us right away. But you needn’t bring any of these Indians with you. Project ‘Leapfrog’ has been altered.”

“But—why? Have we left it too late? Have the aliens gone?”

“Explanations while we fly, Zwingler. Right now we’re in one hell of a hurry. The Brazilian Air Force are hunting for us.”

“They’re—doing—WHAT?” exploded Chester, “WHO are doing WHAT?”

“The Brazilian Air Force. Part of it anyhow. The past few days have seen some surprises, I may tell you! There’s civil war in Brazil. And chaos spreading across half-a-dozen countries. On account of that mess you and your demolition geniuses made of things.”

The man glared resentfully at the trio.

“Goddam awful mess—”

“We haven’t heard anything about what happened. We’ve got no radio. We’ve just been waiting here.”

“You’ll hear about the hornet’s nest you stirred up soon enough. Radio!—it’s frightening these days. How many of you are there? I thought there were just three.”

“You’ll be coming, won’t you Pierre?” asked Zwingler slyly.

Pierre’s eyes gleamed with a sudden ray of hope.

“You said Revolution? And the Air Force are on the side of the Revolution?”

“That’s about it,” the mormon salesman nodded.

“The Revolution!” Pierre whispered gleefully. He glanced around him furtively, as though he was thinking of rushing off into the jungle and joining in the fighting there and then.

Sole caught his look and smiled his best Iago smile.

“You can’t do anything about it stuck here in the jungle, Pierre—you’d better come along with us.”

Sole was conscious, as he said it, that he sounded like a policeman advising the criminal to come quietly.

Pierre hung back, reluctant—and excited.

Even this small measure of delay worried the newcomers.

“Would you people hurry up? The Frenchman can do what he pleases, but my instructions are to fly you three out of here as soon as can be. You’re a hell of a security risk, supposing the Brazilians locate you. Weren’t for this you might have been left here. Things are that touchy.” Sole had to laugh.

“We’re a security risk? My God! Things have turned on their heads.”

Pierre was glancing about the village shiftily again—planning his escape.

“The Frenchman ought to be a security risk, too,” grinned Chester. He raised the dart gun and casually fired a needle into Pierre’s bare shoulder. “Sorry, Pee-áir,” he laughed, mimicking Kayapi’s pronunciation.

Pierre stumbled away with a dazed expression on his face. He hadn’t gone more than five or six paces when he sprawled face down in the mud and lay limp.

Chester handed the gun to Tom Zwingler and walked over to Pierre’s body leisurely; hauled him upright with one hand then bore him back to the helicopter in a fireman’s lift.

Presumably it was all for the best, thought Sole.

Obviously Pierre was in no condition to stay in the jungle. His body had taken a terrible beating from flies and leeches and general strain over the past few days.

As Sole helped Chester hump Pierre’s light frame on board the helicopter, he found himself shivering with a numb guilty thrill. Chester was happy too—he had fired his harpoon at last.

They flew over flat green jungle through thin rainmists and zones of rainbow sunlight. And that man in a hurry, whose name was Amory Hirsch, filled in the details of the missing days. The three men, so abruptly snatched from the timeless village of the Indians, heard with a shiver of fear of the changes in the outside world that had sprung so absurdly from their actions. They had searched for a needle in a haystack—and set the haystack on fire.

They heard of the disaster at Santarém. Of the tens of thousands drowned. The ocean-going ships washed deep into jungle, where they toppled over and their boilers burst. Assassinations of American engineers before the assassins themselves were washed away like so much jetsam. Tidal waves of anger and hatred washing over the Brazilian cities. And how in all the confusion one fact stood out. One lunatic, unaccountable fact. That fearful use of nuclear weapons by the Americans to sabotage their own Amazon Project.

They heard how the pinprick explosions were detected by the Chinese transpacific satellite, the primary role of which was now clear to everyone, a spotter guideline for the ICBM system of the People’s Republic. “Two lousy kilotons!” cried Amory Hirsch, distraught at the pettiness of it—but it had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, in two senses: ecological—and political. As soon as the Chinese found out, be damned to the pretence of earth sciences research. Be damned to the Chinese game of musical satellites—of soaring to the top of the charts with their latest hitsong, Red Chairman of the Board. With what relish they leaked this news, no matter if it blew their own cover. Leaked it? No—avalanched the world with it. Meanwhile the Soviets were lying low—suspiciously low. Then fear and suspicion rode the globe at this first fearful use of nuclear weapons since Nagasaki. American property in Rio and São Paulo was burnt and looted. One part of the Brazilian army and air force defected. The other part was paralysed and reluctant to intervene. The régime’s taut control abruptly snapped. Lunatic, anarchistic episodes followed—the napalming of the US Ambassador’s residence in Brasilia was one. A wave of anarchy flushed through the country from town to town. From mind to mind. The guerrilla underground proclaimed its provisional government from the liberated city of Belo Horizonte. And this wild free violent mood lapped over, in far ripples from that flash flood on the Amazon, into neighbouring countries, infecting and contaminating.

“In nineteen hundred and seventy-five all the people rose from the countryside,” murmured Sole.

Amory Hirsch glared at him stonily.

“You might at least get the year right, whatever your sympathies.”

“Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”

“You were thinking about something else I Jesus Christ!”

“Yes, I see this situation’s bad,” said Tom Zwingler anxiously. “But what about the other business? Have we missed our chance of the stars then? Have the Aliens packed up and gone home? Is that why we have to go back with empty hands?”

Amory Hirsch sneered.

“There’s a big announcement upcoming on that one—and it’s not at all what you think.”

Helplessly, Zwingler gnawed at a fingernail.

“What are you talking about, Hirsch? What else is there to think except that it’s the greatest chance Mankind has ever been handed on a plate!”

“On a flying saucer, you mean,” laughed Hirsch.

“But we found what we came to find, I tell you. Why should this mess down here stop us taking some Indians back to the States?”

Hirsch shook his head.

“Don’t worry, friend. You’ll hear all about the reality scene once we get on board that airplane out of Franklin. This sickness in South America may be adjustable. Essentially it all depends what you’re prepared to throw into the other pan of the scales. History—politics—mass moods—it’s all a question of balances. Finding the right pressure points. The Chinese were ready enough to blow the cover on their satellite, to brew this mess up for us. We only have to up the ante in the most effective way. Amusingly, we can have the Soviets on our side in quashing this revolution.”

It was several hours later that Sole and Zwingler listened disbelievingly to Canal Zone Radio, as the anti-hysteria package was launched. Archimedes had said he could move the world, if only he had a place outside of the world to stand, and a long enough lever. It seemed that the Aliens had been elected to provide that place outside of the world.

But what lever would be used?

“… Big news at this nine o’clock nightly newstime. The joint US—USSR declaration one half-hour ago that hostile extraterrestials from another star system are operating in Earth’s near vicinity. It is now reported that the giant satellite visible over the Pacific Ocean and Siberia and Iceland, reported to have been launched last week by the Soviets—was a cover story agreed between the two major space powers to avoid world alarm.”

“Unbelievable,” muttered Zwingler, fumbling at his throat.

“…Hostility is now certain since the destruction of a joint US-Soviet spacecraft with the loss of three astronauts’ lives, and the destruction of unmanned satellites crossing the path of the alien ship. The flooding of the Amazon basin caused by the destruction of a key dam by a nuclear weapon, reported by a Chinese satellite, is now definitely established in the joint communiqué as tallying with reported sightings of Unidentified Flying Objects in the area—”

“Damnable!”

“Take it easy, Zwingler,” shrugged Hirsch. “You’re a passenger now. Just along for the ride. It was naïve to put your trust in unhumans, when you can’t trust human beings. Wouldn’t you say, naïve?” He thrust a polished marble face bluntly at his fellow passengers. “Unhumans sounds pretty much like inhumans to me, eh?”

“… Urgent consultations between the Soviet and American governments via the Hot Line taking place for several days now. The joint communiqué says it has been thought advisable to reveal the presence of this alien spacecraft, now that it is definitely proven hostile—in view of the widespread panic that might result from any further nuclear sabotage of major engineering works—”

“What stupid lies! Don’t they think of the stars at all?”

“… Emphasized strongly in the communiqué, that any nuclear detonations should not be seen as indicators of any Soviet-American hostilities. Consultations are under way with other members of the Nuclear Club to avoid possible misinterpretations—”

“Surely the Sp’thra can’t still be in Nevada!”

“Oh but they can,” crowed Amory Hirsch. “The inhumans can!” He smiled a waspish smile.

“… From Stateside meanwhile, news that the president will address the nation in one half-hour’s time simultaneously with the Soviet Premier addressing the Russian people—”

“It’s madness!”

“No madder than the madness riding Latin America right now. We think it’s the proper antidote. The prescription for this revolution.”

“It’s criminal,” sputtered Zwingler. “It’s the biggest mistake. What does the whole of Latin America matter beside the million worlds out there! We buy a stinking little peace by sacrificing the stars, when we could have bought the stars with half a dozen brains. It’s so STUPID. Stupid!”

The jet passed high over Panama in the dark of the starry night, and on out over the Caribbean.

And so the sanity filters were selectively removed, one by one. Excited American—and Russian—voices told about the immensity of the interstellar globe orbiting the Earth. UFO sightings were reported from Los Angeles and Omsk, from Tashkent and Caracas. Mysterious charred holes in superhighways. Jets crashing unaccountably. Brought down by who knows what?

Their jet veered out over the Gulf of Mexico towards the American South.

“The Russians?” Amory Hirsch retorted to Zwingler’s persistent, peevish questions. “Well, for one thing they’re implicated with us right up to their necks in this brain trading business. And two, it was the Chi-Coms who scooped all the political kudos by detecting that nuclear blowout at the dam. And three; well, frankly the trading didn’t go too well after you left. Sure, we traded, they traded. But the return in technological data was shaping up as inadequate. The addresses of a few mangy stars. A few crutches to help us hobble round the solar system a bit faster. But not nearly fast enough to escape our own death sentence from any number of exponential causes. Crumbs from the rich man’s table! Hell, Tom, don’t you see, we’re the HUMAN RACE. Soviets and Americans alike. Screw this stupid revolution. How could we be bothered to jockey for influence over a few hundred million miserable gauchos or whatever you call ’em? Maybe the Chinks can be bothered to. Call themselves the ‘Middle Kingdom’? They’re bloody earth-bound peasants, is all! But Soviets and Americans, we’re both of us frontiersmen at heart. We’re not donkeys to be lured a few idiot steps by hanging a carrot before our noses. We turn right round and KICK the carrot out of the hand that mocks us with it.”

“I still don’t see it,” Zwingler moaned.

Amory Hirsch leaned forward patronizingly.

“Tom, you and Leapfrog—that’s the short term view. A new spacious view is in order.”

“Short term!” Zwingler clutched for his lost ruby moons as though for prayer beads, but didn’t find them. There were no adequate prayers.

Flying towards the gulf ports, they picked up more of the progress of the crusade of hysteria from KCTA in Corpus Christi. Amory Hirsch laughingly revealed the codename of the operation—a farrago inspired by memories of the Orson Welles terror broadcast of 30 October 1938—and Sole winced as he remembered his own instinct about the alien TV broadcasts. This was destined to be a much more sophisticated and professional performance than the Welles broadcast back in the Stone Age of media awareness—for this tragic farce they had some actual aliens as actors.

It seemed, though Sole couldn’t swear to it, that the jet was flying more leisurely the closer it got to the USA—maybe they flew slower so as not to trigger any missile sequences set to the superspeed of flying saucers. But there were no flying saucers—they were a myth, a lie. Only one scout ship existed, and that still on the Nevada airstrip, if Amory Hirsch’s word was to be trusted. With one great globe in space with its crew of sad haunted travelling salesmen.

So the Globe had shot down Russian and American satellites with laser beams?

“Has it shot down any?” clamoured Zwingler.

“Course not,” smiled Hirsch, though even as he said it a cloud of doubt passed over his face, as if Welles Farrago was too realistically scripted for him to doubt. Then he winked superciliously. “This is all cereal packet stuff strictly for the kids. The real difficulty is synchronizing our retaliatory blows—not using the hammer to stun the fly—on the other hand not using the fly swat to zap the elephant with—”

“It’s disgusting,” Zwingler shouted at him, losing control. “All I know about flies and elephants is this, Mister Hirsch, I might have swallowed a fly or two in my time, but I do most strenuously strain at this elephant of dishonesty and deceit!”

“Sorry you feel that way, Tom,” smirked the other man, “but it’s policy.”

The President talked about:

The coming together of Earth’s people—in the face of the inhuman adversary. Impossibility of comprehending the intentions or the powers of the truly alien. Their proven hostility attested to publicly by the United States and Soviet Union standing shoulder to shoulder as brothers. By the wanton destruction of the Amazon Development Project with atrocious loss of life and property damage—immediate aid to be rushed to the survivors through the agency of the United Nations, since the Brazilian people had been taken in by irresponsible Chinese lies and propaganda. The assassination in space of two Americans and one Soviet cosmonaut, to whose bravery all homage—write them down in the roll of honour of Planet Earth, Colonel Marcos Haigh, Major Joe Rohrer, Major Vadim Zaitsev. The lasering out of orbit of Earth Resources Satellites—the sabotaging of Earth’s efforts for betterment by a superior and haughty technology—like vicious children pulling the wings off flies…

“Those names,” cried Zwingler. “I remember them. From Nevada.”

“Nonsense, Tom,” Hirsch laughed. “You’re hallucinating. Take any of those Indian drugs?”

On the final approach, as they watched the sprawl of Houston coming up below them, KTRH announced the detonation of a one-kiloton tactical homing missile upon a ‘flying saucer’ temporarily grounded in the Nevada desert…

While the wheels jolted down upon the runway, Amory Hirsch laughed triumphantly and polished his hands.

A moment later, word came of the Soviet orbital bomb that wrecked the Unhumans’ transpolar globe, cracking it open like an egg and spilling its yolk across the sky above the Solomon Islands…

“Bastards—dumb fucking bastards—vicious stupid shits…” cursed Tom Zwingler monotonously while the jet slowed to a halt, till the NO SMOKING sign blanked out.