“That’s right.”
“Well, then—Look, the President knows the score, doesn’t he? I understand that—”
“He knows it.”
“What’s he waiting for? For the whole country to be taken over? He should declare martial law and get action. You told him, a long time ago.”
“So I did.” The Old Man stared down at the countryside. “Son, are you under the impression that the President runs the country?”
“Of course not. But he is the only man who can act.”
“Mmmm—They sometimes call Premier Tsvetkov ‘the Prisoner of the Kremlin’. True or not, the President is the prisoner of Congress.”
“You mean Congress hasn’t acted?”
“I have spent my time the past several days—ever since we stopped the attempt on the President—trying to help the President convince them. Ever been worked over by a congressional committee, son?”
I tried to figure it out. Here we sat, as stupid as dodoes walking up a gangplank to be slugged—yes, and homo sapiens would be as extinct as the dodo if we did not move. Presently the Old Man said, “It’s time you learned the political facts of life. Congresses have refused to act in the face of dangers more obvious than this one. This one isn’t obvious, not until a man has had it in his lap, the way we have. The evidence is slim and hard to believe.”
“But how about the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury? They can’t ignore that.”
“Can’t they? The Assistant Secretary had one snatched off his back, right in the East Wing, and we killed two of his Secret Service guards. And now the honorable gent is in Walter Reed with a nervous breakdown and can’t recall what happened. The Treasury Department gave out that an attempt to assassinate the President had been foiled—true, but not the way they meant it.”
“And the President held still for that?”
“His advisers told him to wait until he can get congressional support. His majority is uncertain at best—and there are stalwart statesmen in both houses who want his head on a platter. Party politics is a rough game.”
“Good Lord, partisanship doesn’t figure in a case like this!”
The Old Man cocked an eyebrow. “You think not, eh?”
I finally managed to ask him the question I had come into his office to ask: where was Mary?
“Odd question from you,” he grunted. I let it ride; he went on, “Where she should be. Guarding the President.”
We went first to a room where a joint special committee was going over evidence. It was a closed session but the Old Man had passes. When we got there they were running stereos; we slipped into seats and watched.
The films were of my anthropoid friend. Napoleon—the ape himself, shots of him with the titan on his back, then close-ups of the titan. It made me sick to see it. One parasite looks like another; but I knew which one this was and I was deeply glad it was dead.
The ape gave way to me myself. I saw myself being clamped into the chair. I hate to admit how I looked; real funk is not pretty. A voice off screen told what was going on.
I saw them lift the titan off the ape and onto my own bare back. Then I fainted in the picture—and almost fainted again. I won’t describe it and it upsets me to tell about it. I saw myself writhing under the shocks given the titan—and I writhed again. At one point I tore my right hand free of the clamps, something I had not known, but which explained why my wrist was still not healed.
And I saw the thing die. That was worth sitting through the rest.
The film ended and the chairman said, “Well, gentlemen?”
“Mr. Chairman!”
“The gentleman from Indiana is recognized.”
“Speaking without prejudice to the issue, I must say that I have seen better trick photography from Hollywood.” They tittered and someone called out, “Hear! Hear!” I knew the ball game was gone.
The head of our bio lab testified, then I found myself called to the stand. I gave my name, address, and occupation, then perfunctorily was asked a number of questions, about my experiences under the titans. The questions were read from a sheet and the chairman obviously was not familiar with them.