Why do people cherish their preconceptions? Riddle me that.
XXI
Operation Parasite seemed to come to a dead stop during this period. The titans continued to hold Zone Red, but they could not break out without being spotted. And we did not try to break in for the good reason that every slug held one of our own people as hostage. It was a situation which might go on for a long time.
The United Nations were no help. The President wanted a simple act of cooperation—Schedule Bare Back on a global scale. They hemmed and hawed and sent the matter to committee for investigation. The plain truth was they did not believe us; that was always the enemy’s great advantage—only the burned believed in the fire.
Some nations were safe from the slugs through their own customs. A Finn who did not strip down and climb into a steam bath, in company, every day or so would have been conspicuous. The Japanese, too, were casual about undressing. The South Seas were relatively safe, as were large parts of Africa. France had gone enthusiastically nudist, on weekends at least, right after World War III—a slug would have a tough time hiding in France.
But in countries where the body-modesty taboo meant something a slug could stay hidden until his host began to stink. The United States itself, Canada—England, most particularly England. “Aren’t you getting excited over nothing, old chap? Take off my weskit? Now, really!”
They flew three slugs (with apes) to London; I understand that the King wanted to set an example as the President had, but the Prime Minister, egged on by the Archbishop of Canterbury, would not let him. The Archbishop had not even bothered to look; moral behavior was more important than mundane peril. Nothing about this appeared in the news and the story may not be true, but English skin was not exposed to the cold stares of neighbors.
The Cominform propaganda system began to blast us as soon as they had worked out a new line. The whole thing was an “American Imperialist fantasy” intended to “enslave the workers”; the “mad dogs of capitalism” were at it again.
I wondered why the titans had not attacked Russia first; Stalinism seemed tailor-made for them. On second thought, I wondered if they had. On third thought I wondered what difference it would make; the people behind the Curtain had had their minds enslaved and parasites riding them for three generations. There might not be two kopeks difference between a commissar with a slug and a commissar without a slug.
There would be one change: their intermittent purges would take a different form; a “deviationist” would be “liquidated” by plastering a titan on his neck. It wouldn’t be necessary to send him to the gas chamber.
Except when the Old Man picked me to work with him I was not close to the center of things; I saw the war with the titans as a man sees hurricanes—his small piece only. I did not see the Old Man soon and I got my assignments from Oldfield, his deputy. Consequently I did not know of it when Mary was relieved from special duty with the President. I ran into her in the lounge of the Section offices. “Mary!” I yelped and fell over my feet getting to her.
She gave me that long, slow, sweet smile and moved over to make room for me. “Hello, darling!” she whispered. She did not ask me what I had been doing, nor scold me that I had not been in touch with her, nor even comment on how long it had been. Mary always let the water over the dam take care of itself.
Not me—I babbled. “This is wonderful! I thought you were still tucking the President into his beddy-bye. How long have you been here? Do you have to go back right away? Say, can I dial you a drink—no, you’ve got one.” I started to dial for an old-fashioned and discovered that Mary had already done so; it popped out almost into my hand. “Huh? How’d this get here?”
“I ordered it when you came in the door.”
“You did? Mary, did I tell you that you are wonderful?”