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Komatsu Forklift BBX50 Series Service Manual SM150Size: 12.8 MBFormat:
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FB32SH-6 FB32SHE-6Serial Number: 090001A and upPart Number: SM150Date:
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Assassin
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Title: Assassin

Author: Jesse F. Bone

Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller

Release date: May 3, 2010 [eBook #32237]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ASSASSIN ***

 Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction
February 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was
renewed.

ASSASSIN
 BY J. F. BONE

Illustrated by Ed Emsh

The aliens wooed Earth with gifts, love, patience and

peace.
Who could resist them? After all, no one shoots Santa
Claus!

he rifle lay comfortably in his hands, a gleaming precision instrument

that exuded a faint odor of gun oil and powder solvent. It was a
perfect specimen of the gunsmith's art, a semi-automatic rifle with a
telescopic sight—a precisely engineered tool that could hurl death with
pinpoint accuracy for better than half a mile.
Daniel Matson eyed the weapon with bleak gray eyes, the eyes of a hunter framed in the
passionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands were steady as they lifted the gun
and tried a dry shot at an imaginary target. He nodded to himself. He was ready.
Carefully he laid the rifle down on the mattress which covered the floor of his firing point,
and looked out through the hole in the brickwork to the narrow canyon of the street
below.
The crowd had thickened. It had been gathering since early morning, and the growing
press of spectators had now become solid walls of people lining the street, packed tightly
together on the sidewalks. Yet despite the fact that there were virtually no police, the
crowd did not overflow into the streets, nor was there any of the pushing crowding
impatience that once attended an assemblage of this sort. Instead there was a placid
tolerance, a spirit of friendly good will, an ingenuous complaisance that grated on
Matson's nerves like the screeching rasp of a file drawn across the edge of thin metal. He
shivered uncontrollably. It was hard to be a free man in a world of slaves.
It was a measure of the Aztlan's triumph that only a bare half-dozen police 'copters
patrolled the empty skies above the parade route. The aliens had done this—had
conquered the world without firing a shot or speaking a word in anger. They had wooed
Earth with understanding patience and superlative guile—and Earth had fallen into their
hands like a lovesick virgin! There never had been any real opposition, and what there
was had been completely ineffective. Most of those who had opposed the aliens were out
of circulation, imprisoned in correctional institutions, undergoing rehabilitation.
Rehabilitation! a six bit word for dehumanizing. When those poor devils finished their
treatment with Aztlan brain-washing techniques, they would be just like these sheep
below, with the difference that they would never be able to be anything else. But these
other stupid fools crowding the sidewalks, waiting to hail their destruction—these were
the ones who must be saved. They—not the martyrs of the underground, were the
important part of humanity.
A police 'copter windmilled slowly down the avenue toward his hiding place, the rotating
vanes and insect body of the craft starkly outlined against the jagged backdrop of the
city's skyline. He laughed soundlessly as the susurrating flutter of the rotor blades beat
overhead and died whispering in the distance down the long canyon of the street. His
position had been chosen with care, and was invisible from air and ground alike. He had
selected it months ago, and had taken considerable pains to conceal its true purpose. But
after today concealment wouldn't matter. If things went as he hoped, the place might
someday become a shrine. The idea amused him.
Strange, he mused, how events conspire to change a man's career. Seven years ago he
had been a respected and important member of that far different sort of crowd which
had welcomed the visitors from space. That was a human crowd—half afraid, wholly
curious, jostling, noisy, pushing—a teeming swarm that clustered in a thick disorderly ring
around the silver disc that lay in the center of the International Airport overlooking Puget
Sound. Then—he could have predicted his career. And none of the predictions would
have been true—for none included a man with a rifle waiting in a blind for the game to
approach within range....
The Aztlan ship had landed early that July morning, dropping silently through the
overcast covering International Airport. It settled gently to rest precisely in the center of
the junction of the three main runways of the field, effectively tying up the
transcontinental and transoceanic traffic. Fully five hundred feet in diameter, the giant
ship squatted massively on the runway junction, cracking and buckling the thick concrete
runways under its enormous weight.
By noon, after the first skepticism had died, and the unbelievable TV pictures had been
flashed to their waiting audience, the crowd began to gather. All through that hot July
morning they came, increasing by the minute as farther outlying districts poured their
curious into the Airport. By early afternoon, literally hundreds of millions of eyes were
watching the great ship over a world-wide network of television stations which cancelled
their regular programs to give their viewers an uninterrupted view of the enigmatic craft.
By mid-morning the sun had burned off the overcast and was shining with brassy
brilliance upon the squads of sweating soldiers from Fort Lewis, and more sweating
squads of blue-clad police from the metropolitan area of Seattle-Tacoma. The police and
soldiery quickly formed a ring around the ship and cleared a narrow lane around the
periphery, and this they maintained despite the increasing pressure of the crowd.
The hours passed and nothing happened. The faint creaking and snapping sounds as the
seamless hull of the vessel warmed its space-chilled metal in the warmth of the summer
sun were lost in the growing impatience of the crowd. They wanted something to
happen. Shouts and catcalls filled the air as more nervous individuals clamored to relieve
the tension. Off to one side a small group began to clap their hands rhythmically. The
little claque gained recruits, and within moments the air was riven by the thunder of
thousands of palms meeting in unison. Frightened the crowd might be, but greater than
fear was the desire to see what sort of creatures were inside.
Matson stood in the cleared area surrounding the ship, a position of privilege he shared
with a few city and state officials and the high brass from McChord Field, Fort Lewis, and
Bremerton Navy Yard. He was one of the bright young men who had chosen Government
Service as a career, and who, in these days of science-consciousness had risen rapidly
through ability and merit promotions to become the Director of the Office of Scientific
Research while still in his early thirties. A dedicated man, trained in the bitter school of
ideological survival, he understood what the alien science could mean to this world. Their
knowledge would secure peace in whatever terms the possessors cared to name, and
Matson intended to make sure that his nation was the one which possessed that
knowledge.
He stood beside a tall scholarly looking man named Roger Thornton, who was his friend
and incidentally the Commissioner of Police for the Twin City metropolitan area. To a
casual eye, their positions should be reversed, for the lean ascetic Thornton looked far
more like the accepted idea of a scientist than burly, thick shouldered, square faced
Matson, whose every movement shouted Cop.
Matson glanced quizzically at the taller man. "Well, Roger, I wonder how long those birds
inside are going to keep us waiting before we get a look at them?"
"You'd be surprised if they really were birds, wouldn't you?" Thornton asked with a faint
smile. "But seriously, I hope it isn't too much longer. This mob is giving the boys a bad
time." He looked anxiously at the strained line of police and soldiery. "I guess I should
have ordered out the night shift and reserves instead of just the riot squad. From the
looks of things they'll be needed if this crowd gets any more unruly."
Matson chuckled. "You're an alarmist," he said mildly. "As far as I can see they're doing
all right. I'm not worried about them—or the crowd, for that matter. The thing that's
bothering me is my feet. I've been standing on 'em for six hours and they're killing me!"
"Mine too," Thornton sighed. "Tell you what I'll do. When this is all over I'll split a bucket
of hot water and a pint of arnica with you."
"It's a deal," Matson said.
As he spoke a deep musical hum came from inside the ship, and a section of the rim
beside him separated along invisible lines of juncture, swinging downward to form a
broad ramp leading upward to a square orifice in the rim of the ship. A bright shadowless
light that seemed to come from the metal walls of the opening framed the shape of the
star traveller who stood there, rigidly erect, looking over the heads of the section of the
crowd before him.
A concerted gasp of awe and admiration rose from the crowd—a gasp that was echoed
throughout the entire ring that surrounded the ship. There must be other openings like
this one, Matson thought dully as he stared at the being from space. Behind him an Army
tank rumbled noisily on its treads as it drove through the crowd toward the ship, the long
gun in its turret lifting like an alert finger to point at the figure of the alien.
The stranger didn't move from his unnaturally stiff position. His oddly luminous eyes
never wavered from their fixed stare at a point far beyond the outermost fringes of the
crowd. Seven feet tall, obviously masculine, he differed from mankind only in minor
details. His long slender hands lacked the little finger, and his waist was abnormally small.
Other than that, he was human in external appearance. A wide sleeved tunic of metallic
fabric covered his upper body, gathered in at his narrow waist by a broad metal belt
studded with tiny bosses. The tunic ended halfway between hip and knee, revealing
powerfully muscled legs encased in silvery hose. Bright yellow hair hung to his shoulders,
clipped short in a square bang across his forehead. His face was long, clean featured and
extraordinarily calm—almost godlike in its repose. Matson stared, fascinated. He had the
curious impression that the visitor had stepped bodily out of the Middle Ages. His dress
and haircut were almost identical with that of a medieval courtier.
The starman raised his hand—his strangely luminous steel gray eyes scanned the crowd
—and into Matson's mind came a wave of peaceful calm, a warm feeling of goodwill and
brotherhood, an indescribable feeling of soothing relaxation. With an odd sense of shock
Matson realized that he was not the only one to experience this. As far back as the
farthest hangers-on near the airport gates the tenseness of the waiting crowd relaxed.
The effect was amazing! Troops lowered their weapons with shamefaced smiles on their
faces. Police relaxed their sweating vigilance. The crowd stirred, moving backward to give
its members room. The emotion-charged atmosphere vanished as though it had never
been. And a cold chill played icy fingers up the spine of Daniel Matson. He had felt the
full impact of the alien's projection, and he was more frightened than he had ever been
in his life!

hey had been clever—damnably clever! That initial greeting with its disarming
undertones of empathy and innocence had accomplished its purpose. It had
emasculated Mankind's natural suspicion of strangers. And their subsequent actions
—so beautifully timed—so careful to avoid the slightest hint of evil, had completed what
their magnificently staged appearance had begun.
The feeling of trust had persisted. It lasted through quarantine, clearance, the public
receptions, and the private meetings with scientists and the heads of government. It had
persisted unabated through the entire two months they remained in the Twin City area.
The aliens remained as they had been in the beginning—completely unspoiled by the
interest shown in them. They remained simple, unaffected, and friendly, displaying an
ingenuous innocence that demanded a corresponding faith in return.
Most of their time was spent at the University of Washington, where at their own request
they were studied by curious scholars, and in return were given courses in human history
and behavior. They were quite frank about their reasons for following such a course of
action—according to their spokesman Ixtl they wanted to learn human ways in order to
make a better impression when they visited the rest of Mankind. Matson read that blurb
in an official press release and laughed cynically. Better impression, hah! They couldn't
have done any better if they had an entire corps of public relations specialists assisting
them! They struck exactly the right note—and how could they improve on perfection?
From the beginning they left their great ship open and unguarded while they commuted
back and forth from the airport to the campus. And naturally the government quickly
rectified the second error and took instant advantage of the first. A guard was posted
around the ship to keep it clear of the unofficially curious, while the officially curious
combed the vessel's interior with a fine tooth comb. Teams of scientists and technicians
under Matson's direction swarmed through the ship, searching with the most advanced
methods of human science for the secrets of the aliens.
They quickly discovered that while the star travellers might be trusting, they were not
exactly fools. There was nothing about the impenetrably shielded mechanisms that gave
the slightest clue as to their purpose or to the principles upon which they operated—nor
were there any visible controls. The ship was as blankly uncommunicative as a brick wall.
Matson was annoyed. He had expected more than this, and his frustration drove him to
watch the aliens closely. He followed them, sat in on their sessions with the scholars at
the University, watched them at their frequent public appearances, and came to know
them well enough to recognize the microscopic differences that made them individuals.
To the casual eye they were as alike as peas in a pod, but Matson could separate Farn
from Quicha, and Laz from Acana—and Ixtl—well he would have stood out from the
others in any circumstances. But Matson never intruded. He was content to sit in the
background and observe.
And what he saw bothered him. They gave him no reason for their appearance on Earth,
and whenever the question came up Ixtl parried it adroitly. They were obviously not
explorers for they displayed a startling familiarity with Earth's geography and ecology.
They were possibly ambassadors, although they behaved like no ambassadors he had
ever seen. They might be traders, although what they would trade only God and the
aliens knew—and neither party was in a talking mood. Mysteries bothered Matson. He
didn't like them. But they could keep their mystery if he could only have the technical
knowledge that was concealed beneath their beautifully shaped skulls.
At that, he had to admit that their appearance had come at precisely the right time. No
one better than he knew how close Mankind had been to the final war, when the last two
major antagonists on Earth were girding their human and industrial power for a final
showdown. But the aliens had become a diversion. The impending war was forgotten
while men waited to see what was coming next. It was obvious that the starmen had a
reason for being here, and until they chose to reveal it, humanity would forget its deadly
problems in anticipation of the answer to this delightful puzzle that had come to them
from outer space. Matson was thankful for the breathing space, all too well aware that it
might be the last that Mankind might have, but the enigma of the aliens still bothered
him.
He was walking down the main corridor of the Physics Building on the University campus,
wondering as he constantly did about how he could extract some useful knowledge from
the aliens when a quiet voice speaking accentless English sounded behind him.
"What precisely do you wish to know, Dr. Matson?" the voice said.
Matson whirled to face the questioner, and looked into the face of Ixtl. The alien was
smiling, apparently pleased at having startled him. "What gave you the idea that I
wanted to know anything?" he asked.
"You did," Ixtl said. "We all have been conscious of your thoughts for many days. Forgive
me for intruding, but I must. Your speculations radiate on such a broad band that we
cannot help being aware of them. It has been quite difficult for us to study your customs
and history with this high level background noise. We are aware of your interest, but your
thoughts are so confused that we have never found questions we could answer. If you
would be more specific we would be happy to give you the information which you seek."
"Oh yeah!" Matson thought.
"Of course. It would be to our advantage to have your disturbing speculations satisfied
and your fears set at rest. We could accomplish more in a calmer environment. It is too
bad that you do not receive as strongly as you transmit. If you did, direct mental contact
would convince you that our reasons for satisfying you are good. But you need not fear
us, Earthman. We intend you no harm. Indeed, we plan to help you once we learn
enough to formulate a proper program."
"I do not fear you," Matson said—knowing that he lied.
"Perhaps not consciously," Ixtl said graciously, "but nevertheless fear is in you. It is too
bad—and besides," he continued with a faint smile "it is very uncomfortable. Your
glandular emotions are quite primitive, and very disturbing."
"I'll try to keep them under control," Matson said dryly.
"Physical control is not enough. With you there would have to be mental control as well.
Unfortunately you radiate much more strongly than your fellow men, and we are unable
to shut you out without exerting considerable effort that could better be employed
elsewhere." The alien eyed Matson speculatively. "There you go again," he said. "Now
you're angry."
Matson tried to force his mind to utter blankness, and the alien smiled at him. "It does
some good—but not much," he said. "Conscious control is never perfect."
"Well then, what can I do?"
"Go away. Your range fortunately is short."
Matson looked at the alien. "Not yet," he said coldly. "I'm still looking for something."
"Our technology," Ixtl nodded. "I know. However I can assure you it will be of no help to
you. You simply do not have the necessary background. Our science is based upon a
completely different philosophy from yours."
To Matson the terms were contradictory.
"Not as much as you think," Ixtl continued imperturbably. "As you will find out, I was
speaking quite precisely." He paused and eyed Matson thoughtfully. "It seems as though
the only way to remove your disturbing presence is to show you that our technology is of
no help to you. I will make a bargain with you. We shall show you our machines, and in
return you will stop harassing us. We will do all in our power to make you understand;
but whether you do or do not, you will promise to leave and allow us to continue our
studies in peace. Is that agreeable?"
Matson swallowed the lump in his throat. Here it was—handed to him on a silver platter—
and suddenly he wasn't sure that he wanted it!
"It is," he said. After all, it was all he could expect.
They met that night at the spaceship. The aliens, tall, calm and cool; Matson stocky,
heavy-set and sweating. The contrast was infernally sharp, Matson thought. It was as if a
primitive savage were meeting a group of nuclear physicists at Los Alamos. For some
unknown reason he felt ashamed that he had forced these people to his wishes. But the
aliens were pleasant about it. They took the imposition in their usual friendly way.
"Now," Ixtl said. "Exactly what do you want to see—to know?"
"First of all, what is the principle of your space drive?"
"There are two," the alien said. "The drive that moves this ship in normal space time is
derived from Lurgil's Fourth Order equations concerning the release of subatomic energy
in a restricted space time continuum. Now don't protest! I know you know nothing of
Lurgil, nor of Fourth Order equations. And while I can show you the mathematics, I'm
afraid they will be of little help. You see, our Fourth Order is based upon a process which
you would call Psychomathematics and that is something I am sure you have not yet
achieved."
Matson shook his head. "I never heard of it," he admitted.
"The second drive operates in warped space time," Ixtl continued, "hyperspace in your
language, and its theory is much more difficult than that of our normal drive, although its
application is quite simple, merely involving apposition of congruent surfaces of hyper
and normal space at stress points in the ether where high gravitational fields balance.
Navigation in hyperspace is done by electronic computer—somewhat more advanced
models than yours. However, I can't give you the basis behind the hyperspace drive." Ixtl
smiled depreciatingly. "You see, I don't know them myself. Only a few of the most
advanced minds of Aztlan can understand. We merely operate the machines."
Matson shrugged. He had expected something like this. Now they would stall him off
about the machines after handing him a fast line of double-talk.
"As I said," Ixtl went on, "there is no basis for understanding. Still, if it will satisfy you,
we will show you our machines—and the mathematics that created them although I
doubt that you will learn anything more from them than you have from our explanation."
"I could try," Matson said grimly.
"Very well," Ixtl replied.
He led the way into the center of the ship where the seamless housings stood, the
housings that had baffled some of the better minds of Earth. Matson watched while the
star men proceeded to be helpful. The housings fell apart at invisible lines of juncture,
revealing mechanisms of baffling simplicity, and some things that didn't look like
machines at all. The aliens stripped the strange devices and Ixtl attempted to explain.
They had anti-gravity, forcefields, faster than light drive, and advanced design computers
that could be packed in a suitcase. There were weird devices whose components seemed
to run out of sight at crazily impossible angles, other things that rotated frictionlessly,
suspended in fields of pure force, and still others which his mind could not envisage even
after his eyes had seen them. All about him lay the evidence of a science so advanced
and alien that his brain shrank from the sight, refusing to believe such things existed.
And their math was worse! It began where Einstein left off and went off at an
incomprehensible tangent that involved psychology and ESP. Matson was lost after the
first five seconds!
Stunned, uncomprehending and deflated, he left the ship. An impression that he was
standing with his toe barely inside the door of knowledge became a conscious certainty
as he walked slowly to his car. The wry thought crossed his mind that if the aliens were
trying to convince him of his abysmal ignorance, they had succeeded far beyond their
fondest dreams!

They certainly had! Matson thought grimly as he selected five cartridges from the box
lying beside him. In fact they had succeeded too well. They had turned his deflation into
antagonism, his ignorance into distrust. Like a savage, he suspected what he could not
understand. But unlike the true primitive, the emotional distrust didn't interfere with his
ability to reason or to draw logical inferences from the data which he accumulated. In
attempting to convince, Ixtl had oversold his case.

t was shortly after he had returned to Washington, that the aliens gave the waiting
world the reasons for their appearance on Earth. They were, they said, members of a
very ancient highly evolved culture called Aztlan. And the Aztlans, long past the need
for conquest and expansion, had turned their mighty science to the help of other, less
fortunate, races in the galaxy. The aliens were, in a sense, missionaries—one of hundreds
of teams travelling the star lanes to bring the benefits of Aztlan culture to less favored
worlds. They were, they unblushingly admitted, altruists—interested only in helping
others.
It was pure corn, Matson reflected cynically, but the world lapped it up and howled for
more. After decades of cold war, lukewarm war, and sporadic outbreaks of violence, that
were inevitably building to atomic destruction, men were willing to try anything that
would ease the continual burden of strain and worry. To Mankind, the Aztlans' words
were as refreshing as a cool breeze of hope in a desert of despair.
And the world got what it wanted.

Quite suddenly the aliens left the Northwest, and accompanied by protective squads of
FBI and Secret Service began to cross the nation. Taking widely separated paths they
visited cities, towns, and farms, exhibiting the greatest curiosity about the workings of
human civilization. And, in turn, they were examined by hordes of hopeful humans.
Everywhere they went, they spread their message of good will and hope backed by the
incredibly convincing power of their telepathic minds. Behind them, they left peace and
hopeful calm; before them, anticipation mounted. It rose to a crescendo in New York
where the paths of the star men met.
The Aztlans invaded the United Nations. They spoke to the General Assembly and the
Security Council, were interviewed by the secretariat and reporters from a hundred
foreign lands. They told their story with such conviction that even the Communist bloc
failed to raise an objection, which was as amazing to the majority of the delegates as the
fact of the star men themselves. Altruism, it seemed, had no conflict with dialectic
materialism. The aliens offered a watered-down variety of their technology to the peoples
of Earth with no strings attached, and the governments of Earth accepted with open
hands, much as a small boy accepts a cookie from his mother. It was impossible for men
to resist the lure of something for nothing, particularly when it was offered by such
people as the Aztlans. After all, Matson reflected bitterly, nobody shoots Santa Claus!
From every nation in the world came invitations to the aliens to visit their lands. The star
men cheerfully accepted. They moved across Europe, Asia, and Africa—visited South
America, Central America, the Middle East and Oceania. No country escaped them. They
absorbed languages, learned customs, and spread good will. Everywhere they went
relaxation followed in their footsteps, and throughout the world arose a realization of the
essential brotherhood of man.
It took nearly three years of continual travelling before the aliens again assembled at UN
headquarters to begin the second part of their promised plan—to give their science to
Earth. And men waited with calm expectation for the dawn of Golden Age.

Matson's lips twisted. Fools! Blind, stupid fools! Selling their birthright for a mess of
pottage! He shifted the rifle across his knees and began filling the magazine with
cartridges. He felt an empty loneliness as he closed the action over the filled magazine
and turned the safety to "on". There was no comforting knowledge of support and
sympathy to sustain him in what he was about to do. There was no real hope that there
ever would be. His was a voice crying in the wilderness, a voice that was ignored—as it
had been when he visited the President of the United States....

atson entered the White House, presented his appointment card, and was ushered
past ice-eyed Secret Service men into the presidential office. It was as close as he
had ever been to the Chief Executive, and he stared with polite curiosity across the
width of desk which separated them.
"I wanted to see you about the Aztlan business," the President began without preamble.
"You were there when their ship landed, and you are also one of the few men in the
country who has seen them alone. In addition, your office will probably be handling the
bulk of our requests in regard to the offer they made yesterday in the UN. You're in a
favorable spot." The President smiled and shrugged. "I wanted to talk with you sooner,
but business and routine play the devil with one's desires in this office.
"Now tell me," he continued, "your impression of these people."
"They're an enigma," Matson said flatly. "To tell the truth, I can't figure them out." He ran
his fingers through his hair with a worried gesture. "I'm supposed to be a pretty fair
physicist, and I've had quite a bit of training in the social sciences, but both the
mechanisms and the psychology of these Aztlans are beyond my comprehension. All I
can say for sure is that they're as far beyond us as we are beyond the cavemen. In fact,
we have so little in common that I can't think of a single reason why they would want to
stay here, and the fact that they do only adds to my confusion."
"But you must have learned something," the President said.
"Oh we've managed to collect data," Matson replied. "But there's a lot of difference
between data and knowledge."
"I can appreciate that, but I'd still like to know what you think. Your opinion could have
some weight."
Matson doubted it. His opinions were contrary to those of the majority. Still, the Chief
asked for it—and he might possibly have an open mind. It was a chance worth taking.
"Well, Sir, I suppose you've heard of the so-called "wild talents" some of our own people
occasionally possess?"
The President nodded.
"It is my belief," Matson continued, "that the Aztlans possess these to a far greater
degree than we do, and that their science is based upon them. They have something
which they call psychomathematics, which by definition is the mathematics of the mind,
and this seems to be the basis of their physical science. I saw their machines, and I must
confess that their purpose baffled me until I realized that they must be mechanisms for
amplifying their own natural equipment. We know little or nothing about psi phenomena,
so it is no wonder I couldn't figure them out. As a matter of fact we've always treated psi
as something that shouldn't be mentioned in polite scientific conversation."
The President grinned. "I always thought you boys had your blind spots."
"We do—but when we're confronted with a fact, we try to find out something about it—
that is if the fact hits us hard enough, often enough."
"Well, you've been hit hard and often," the President chuckled, "What did you find out?"
"Facts," Matson said grimly, "just facts. Things that could be determined by observation
and measurement. We know that the aliens are telepathic. We also know that they have
a form of ESP—or perhaps a recognition of danger would be a better term—and we know
its range is somewhat over a third of a mile. We know that they're telekinetic. The lack of
visible controls in their ship would tell us that, even if we hadn't seen them move small
objects at a distance. We know that they have eidetic memories, and that they can
reason on an extremely high level. Other than that we know nothing. We don't even
know their physical structure. We've tried X-ray but they're radio-opaque. We've tried
using some human sensitives from the Rhine Institute, but they're unable to get
anywhere. They just turn empathic in the aliens' presence, and when we get them back,
they do nothing but babble about the beauty of the Aztlan soul."
"Considering the difficulties, you haven't done too badly," the President said. "I take it
then, that you're convinced that they are an advanced life form. But do you think they're
sincere in their attitude toward us?"
"Oh, they're sincere enough," Matson said. "The only trouble is that we don't know just
what they're sincere about. You see, sir, we are in the position of a savage to whom a
trader brings the luxuries of civilization. To the savage, the trader may represent purest
altruism, giving away such valuable things as glass beads and machine made cloth for
useless pieces of yellow rock and the skins of some native pest. The savage hasn't the
slightest inkling that he's being exploited. By the time he realizes he's been had, and the
yellow rock is gold and the skins are mink, he has become so dependent upon the goods
for which the trader has whetted his appetite that he inevitably becomes an economic
slave.
"Of course you can argue that the cloth and beads are far more valuable to the savage
than the gold or mink. But in the last analysis, value is determined by the higher culture,
and by that standard, the savage gets taken. And ultimately civilization moves in and the
superior culture of the trader's race determines how the savage will act.
"Still, the savage has a basis for his acts. He is giving something for something—making
a trade. But we're not even in that position. The aliens apparently want nothing from us.
They have asked for nothing except our good will, and that isn't a tradable item."
"But they're altruists!" the President protested.
"Sir, do you think that they're insane?" Matson asked curiously. "Do they appear like
fanatics to you?"
"But we can't apply our standards to them. You yourself have said that their civilization is
more advanced than ours."
"Whose standards can we apply?" Matson asked. "If not ours, then whose? The only
standards that we can possibly apply are our own, and in the entire history of human
experience there has never been a single culture that has had a basis of pure altruism.
Such a culture could not possibly exist. It would be overrun and gobbled up by its
practical neighbors before it drew its first breath.
"We must assume that the culture from which these aliens come has had a practical basis
in its evolutionary history. It could not have risen full blown and altruistic like Minerva
from the brain of Jove. And if the culture had a practical basis in the past, it logically
follows that it has a practical basis in the present. Such a survival trait as practicality
would probably never be lost no matter how far the Aztlan race has evolved. Therefore,
we must concede that they are practical people—people who do not give away something
for nothing. But the question still remains—what do they want?
"Whatever it is, I don't think it is anything from which we will profit. No matter how good
it looks, I am convinced that cooperation with these aliens will not ultimately be to our
advantage. Despite the reports of every investigative agency in this government, I cannot
believe that any such thing as pure altruism exists in a sane mind. And whatever I may
believe about the Aztlans, I do not think they're insane."
The President sighed. "You are a suspicious man, Matson, and perhaps you are right; but
it doesn't matter what you believe—or what I believe for that matter. This government
has decided to accept the help the Aztlans are so graciously offering. And until the
reverse is proven, we must accept the fact that the star men are altruists, and work with
them on that basis. You will organize your office along those lines, and extract every
gram of information that you can. Even you must admit that they have knowledge that
will improve our American way of life."
Matson shook his head doggedly. "I'm afraid, Sir, if you expect Aztlan science to improve
the American way of life, you are going to be disappointed. It might promote an Aztlan
way of life, but the reverse is hardly possible."
"It's not my decision," the President said. "My hands are tied. Congress voted for the deal
by acclamation early this morning. I couldn't veto it even if I wanted to."
"I cannot cooperate in what I believe is our destruction." Matson said in a flat voice.
"Then you have only one course," the President said. "I will be forced to accept your
resignation." He sighed wearily.
"Personally, I think you're making a mistake. Think it over before you decide. You're a
good man, and Lord knows the government can use good men. There are far too many
fools in politics." He shrugged and stood up. The interview was over.
Matson returned to his offices, filled with cold frustration. Even the President believed he
could do nothing, and these shortsighted politicians who could see nothing more than the
immediate gains—there was a special hell reserved for them. There were too many fools
in politics. However, he would do what he could. His sense of duty was stronger than his
resentment. He would stay on and try to cushion some of the damage which the Aztlans
would inevitably cause, no matter how innocent their motives. And perhaps the President
was right—perhaps the alien science would bring more good than harm.

or the next two years Matson watched the spread of Aztlan ideas throughout the
world. He saw Aztlan devices bring health, food and shelter to millions in
underprivileged countries, and improve the lot of those in more favored nations. He
watched tyrannies and authoritarian governments fall under the passive resistance of
their peoples. He saw militarism crumble to impotence as the Aztlan influence spread
through every facet of society, first as a trickle, then as a steady stream, and finally as a
rushing torrent. He saw Mankind on the brink of a Golden Age—and he was unsatisfied.
Reason said that the star men were exactly what they claimed to be. Their every action
proved it. Their consistency was perfect, their motives unimpeachable, and the results of
their efforts were astounding. Life on Earth was becoming pleasant for millions who
never knew the meaning of the word. Living standards improved, and everywhere men
were conscious of a feeling of warmth and brotherhood. There was no question that the
aliens were doing exactly what they promised.
But reason also told him that the aliens were subtly and methodically destroying
everything that man had created, turning him from an individual into a satisfied puppet
operated by Aztlan strings. For man is essentially lazy—always searching for the easier
way. Why should he struggle to find an answer when the Aztlans had discovered it
millennia ago and were perfectly willing to share their knowledge? Why should he use
inept human devices when those of the aliens performed similar operations with infinitely
more ease and efficiency? Why should he work when all he had to do was ask? There
was plan behind their acts.
But at that point reason dissolved into pure speculation. Why were they doing this? Was
it merely mistaken kindliness or was there a deeper more subtle motive? Matson didn't
know, and in that lack of knowledge lay the hell in which he struggled.

For two years he stayed on with the OSR, watching humanity rush down an unmarked
road to an uncertain future. Then he ran away. He could take no more of this blind
dependence upon alien wisdom. And with the change in administration that had occurred
in the fall elections he no longer had the sense of personal loyalty to the President which
had kept him working at a job he despised. He wanted no part of this brave new world
the aliens were creating. He wanted to be alone. Like a hermit of ancient times who
abandoned society to seek his soul, Matson fled to the desert country of the South-west
—as far as possible from the Aztlans and their works.
The grimly beautiful land toughened his muscles, blackened his skin, and brought him a
measure of peace. Humanity retreated to remoteness except for Seth Winters, a leathery
old-timer he had met on his first trip into the desert. The acquaintance had ripened to
friendship. Seth furnished a knowledge of the desert country which Matson lacked, and
Matson's money provided the occasional grubstake they needed. For weeks at a time
they never saw another human—and Matson was satisfied. The world could go its own
way. He would go his.
Running away was the smartest thing he could have done. Others more brave perhaps,
or perhaps less rational—had tried to fight, to form an underground movement to oppose
these altruists from space; but they were a tiny minority so divided in motives and
purpose that they could not act as a unit. They were never more than a nuisance, and
without popular support they never had a chance. After the failure of a complicated plot
to assassinate the aliens, they were quickly rounded up and confined. And the aliens
continued their work.

Matson shrugged. It was funny how little things could mark mileposts in a man's life. If
he had known of the underground he probably would have joined it and suffered the
same penalty for failure. If he hadn't fled, if he hadn't met Seth Winters, if he hadn't
taken that last trip into the desert, if any one of a hundred little things had happened
differently he would not be here. That last trip into the desert—he remembered it as
though it were yesterday....

The yellow flare of a greasewood fire cast flickering spears of light into the encircling
darkness. Above, in the purplish black vault of the moonless sky the stars shone down
with icy splendor. The air was quiet, the evening breeze had died, and the stillness of the
desert night pressed softly upon the earth. Far away, muted by distance, came the
ululating wail of a coyote.
Seth Winters laid another stick of quick-burning greasewood on the fire and squinted
across the smoke at Matson who was lying on his back, arms crossed behind his head,
eyeing the night sky with the fascination of a dreamer.
"It's certainly peaceful out here," Matson murmured as he rose to his feet, stretched, and
sat down again looking into the tiny fire.
"'Tain't nothin' unusual, Dan'l. Not out here it ain't. It's been plumb peaceful on this here
desert nigh onto a million years. An' why's it peaceful? Mainly 'cuz there ain't too many
humans messin' around in it."
"Possibly you're right, Seth."
"Shore I'm right. It jest ain't nacheral fer a bunch of Homo saps to get together without
an argyment startin' somewhere. 'Tain't the nature of the critter to be peaceable. An'
y'know, thet's the part of this here sweetness an' light between nations that bothers me.
Last time I was in Prescott, I set down an' read six months of newspapers—an'
everything's jest too damn good to be true. Seems like everybody's gettin' to love
everybody else." He shook his head. "The hull world's as sticky-sweet as molasses candy.
It jest ain't nacheral!"
"The star men are keeping their word. They said that they would bring us peace. Isn't
that what they're doing?"
"Shucks Dan'l—that don't give 'em no call to make the world a blasted honey-pot with
everybody bubblin' over with brotherly love. There ain't no real excitement left. Even the
Commies ain't raisin' hell like they useta. People are gettin' more like a bunch of damn
woolies every day."
"I'll admit that Mankind had herd instincts," Matson replied lazily, "but I've never thought
of them as particularly sheeplike. More like a wolf pack, I'd say."
"Wal, there's nothin' wolflike about 'em right now. Look, Dan'l, yuh know what a wolf
pack's like. They're smart, tough, and mean—an' the old boss wolf is the smartest,
toughest, and meanest critter in the hull pack. The others respect him 'cuz he's proved
his ability to lead. But take a sheep flock now—the bellwether is jest a nice gentle old
castrate thet'll do jest whut the sheepherder wants. He's got no originality. He's jest a
noise thet the rest foller."
"Could be."
"It shore is! Jes f'r instance, an' speakin' of bellwethers, have yuh ever heard of a
character called Throckmorton Bixbee?"
"Can't say I have. He sounds like a nance."
"Whutever a nance is—he's it! But yuh're talkin' about our next President, unless all the
prophets are wrong. He's jest as bad as his name. Of all the gutless wonders I've ever
heard of that pilgrim takes the prize. He even looks like a rabbit!"
"I can see where I had better catch up on some contemporary history," Matson said. "I've
been out in the sticks too long."
"If yuh know what's good fer yuh, yuh'll stay here. The rest of the country's goin' t'hell.
Brother Bixbee's jest a sample. About the only thing that'd recommend him is that he's
hot fer peace—an' he's got those furriners' blessing. Seems like those freaks swing a lotta
weight nowadays, an' they ain't shy about tellin' folks who an' what they favor. They've
got bold as brass this past year."
Matson nodded idly—then stiffened—turning a wide eyed stare on Seth. A blinding light
exploded in his brain as the words sank in. With crystal clarity he knew the answer! He
laughed harshly.
Winters stared at him with mild surprise. "What's bit yuh, Dan'l?"
But Matson was completely oblivious, busily buttressing the flash of inspiration. Sure—
that was the only thing it could be! Those aliens were working on a program—one that
was grimly recognizable once his attention was focussed on it. There must have been
considerable pressure to make them move so fast that a short-lived human could see