“I know it is, Sike. But now, the question is, what’s going to happen here? The mayor and the rest of the hostages are dead, of course. This in itself isn’t surprising, because of course the Mekklinites are believers in violence. But couldn’t it cause the premier to take the advice of the more warlike of his advisers and . . . say . . . use sleepy gas on the mob?”
“I hope not, Snok. But the premier might lose his head and attempt to do some such thing. Of course, since the passage of the No-Violence Act as an attempt to appease the Mekklinites, this would involve the immediate fall of the government.”
“Yes. The premier is in a situation, Sike, that calls for the utmost political finesse, and I’m just afraid that he doesn’t have that magical presence or zeerema or whatever it is that would enable him to pull it off. We’ll be back with you again later, Sike. Thank you for a truly impressive analysis of the situation.”
Horsip muttered to himself, groped for the signal-change switch, and was at once treated to a smell like dead fish.
Before he could get at the signal-change switch again, an impressive voice intoned in his ear: “This is the smell—or ‘bouquet’ in the words of the aficionados—of the drug garazal, or ‘green drops.’ Those of you who have the latest Constituex sets with full panoply of newsworthy scents will feel the actual effects of this drug as the room begins to rotate around you. We are now in an actual ‘green-drop heaven’ where the aficionados gather to experience what is said to be an elevation of the sense of awareness—far superior to ordinary experience, because the green-drop experience is ‘genetically coded on the tissues of the brain.’ The superiority of dream experience to real world is said to enable the aficionado to ‘block out’ the real world and its experiences, which become irrelevant as he withdraws into green-drop heaven and its far more attractive—”
Horsip connected with the controls, switched to another signal, and was rewarded by the sight of an individual with large teeth, bared in a smirk, who was saying ” . . . superiority of the immoral tridem to the moral tridem is that the immoral tridem simply immerses the viewer in a world he might otherwise never have known, and he can’t—simply can’t—get out of it if it’s really well done. This gives the tridemist a real lift—a real boot—I simply can’t describe it. It’s a sense of power”—the recording camera zoomed in to enlarge his face until it filled the field of view—”a really godlike sensation, to use an antique term—”
Horsip’s groping hand found the signal-change switch, and now he was looking at three people seated on three sides of a table, facing each other as Horsip viewed the scene as if sitting slightly back from the table on the fourth side. Two of the faces showed expressions of cynical disbelief, and one had a defiant, somewhat maniacal air. The two with the cynical expressions were seated to right and left. The defiant one was saying, “In this year of indecision, I have been visited by a vision of the way things have been and the way things shall be.” His eyes seemed to drill into Horsip’s head. “Today I have a special message—”
Horsip located the signal-change switch.
Through the earplugs, like some voice of doom, came a monologue in which one word followed fast on the heels of another:
” . . . situation has deteriorated badly in the last several days. Brog Grokig, new member of the Board of Control, suggests that in future it may be necessary to allow criminals to determine their own punishment. ‘They will not accept it from anyone else,’ Grokig warned . . . Mroggis New College has found a way to cope with the dissatisfaction of its students in today’s changing universe and maladjusted environmental situation. Mroggis now offers Certificates of Achievement Specializing in Revolution, in addition to the more traditional subjects. ‘We do not prejudge the situation,’ said Administrator Gurnik. ‘One specialty is as specialized as another. Merely a different viewpoint is involved. Everything is relative.’ On Darg III, it is reported that the planetary president has been impeached for suggesting that weapons be supplied to the planetary constabulary . . . Occupation of Dione IV by forces of the Snard Soviet is now reported to be complete . . . Dictator Ganfre has warned against further aggression by Snard, and has also issued an ultimatum to the president of the planet Columbia, warning that Columbia must join with Ganfre or be subject to precautionary occupation to prevent seizure by Snard . . . A force of unknown size, but said to be powerful, and bearing the emblems of the defunct empire known as the Integral Union, is reported in the vicinity of the planet Hinkel. This force is under the control of a general named Orsip, who is believed to have drawn together the last shreds of the dying empire, and is now rumored seeking alliance with Dictator Hinkle . . . Those of you who missed ‘Makers of the Problems’ today will be interested to know that Sedak Goplin, the religious so-called prophet, had a seizure during the show, but was revived promptly by administration of oxygen . . . On Atrinx III, the agricultural planet, where 90 percent of all grain for this region of space is produced, the new outbreak of green army-weevils has been contained, under the super-powerful spray Arsoxychlorphosthicide. However, it is reported that the action of the spray has shriveled up the grain, and caused the soil to break up into little lumps of clay and water . . . On Moxis II, where the weather-control satellites are now in action, a new series of disastrous floods has been followed by a plague which—”
At what point it happened, Horsip didn’t know, but suddenly he felt like shooting himself. Even when things had been at their worst in the invasion of Earth, he hadn’t felt like this. Dazed, he shoved back the eyepieces, pushed down the nosepiece, and pulled out the earplugs, through which came the words, ” . . . and that’s the news. Stay locked to this signal from morning to night. An informed citizen is a . . .”
Horsip staggered to his feet, passed Moffis, still working like an automaton on the reports, shoved open a hatch, and stepped out on a kind of balcony, rigged for the occasion, that looked out over the spaceport where the ship had set down.
Horsip had scarcely pushed the hatch half-shut behind him when a movement in the brush at the edge of the spaceport caught his attention.
His mind a maze of hopelessness, Horsip watched a hideous hairy creature emerge from the brush, crouch, and spring directly for him, claws outstretched.
Horsip watched it loom larger, knew it meant the end, and didn’t care. What was the use? Why bother?
His hand happened to brush the holster of his service pistol, and through tortuous channels of his mind, the sensation operated to rouse his stunned faculties. Abruptly, he whipped open his holster-flap and yanked out the gun, to fire point-blank.
There was a high-pitched squeal, then a clutching of claws all around him. Horsip fired again and again, discharging one barrel after another.
There was a hideous chattering sound.
The gun was empty, but Horsip, suddenly furious, raised a booted leg and rammed the creature in the midsection, knocking it off the balcony.
Moffis, gun in hand, was suddenly beside Horsip, and took aim as the thing streaked for the brush. He missed it three times in succession, then hit it as it dove into the bushes.
Horsip said, “That was a Mikeril, Moffis!”
“I saw it! But it can’t be!”
“Nevertheless,” said Horsip, “it was. Mikerils! That’s all we need! All right, let’s go back in before another one shows up. We’ve seen all we need to here, anyway.”
Part VII: Trap
Colonel John Towers, commanding Independent Division III of the Special Effects Team, drifted down through the moist air with the sun hot on his back, set the gravitor pack to hover, and looked down through his binoculars at a chain of low dark-green equatorial islands that stretched due east to the distant horizon. To the north and south, a placid ocean shimmered unbroken as far as the eye could see.
Scattered along the island chain lay many Centran spaceships, and Towers studied the identifying letters and numbers on a ship almost directly below. This was the command ship of Major General Sark Glossip, Centran Military Overseer of the planet.
Towers, in his many tricky and deceptive assignments for the Centra-Earth alliance, had acquired a knack for recognizing particularly bad situations. He turned back the flap of his holster, and made sure his service automatic slid easily to hand. He glanced up at a glint of reflected sunlight high overhead, and took a small communicator from its case on his belt.