"MartiansCome" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowndes Robert W)

His voice now became grim, assured. "Gentlemen, there is no time to be lost--the word must be preparedness--lest we be too late!

"Barricades must be erected; cities protected; offensive equipment set up. Earth must be ready to attack--and attack well--the instant these creatures land upon our planet. They informed us, early in the conversations, that they had superseded a mammalian culture on Mars; I have no doubt, now, in what manner this supersession took place. It must not be repeated here."

Wiping his brow, he collapsed in a chair beside Gary.

"It was a bit thick, wasn't it?" asked the big man cautiously.

"Maybe. But we have our own necks to think of first. Right?" ...

"I guess so--ah!" The Director of the Presidium had risen.

"Are there any questions to be put?"

"Grab your second wind, murmured Gary. "Here comes a cross-examination."


GARY PAWED LIMPLY over a sheaf of newspapers, running from the first headline: WHITLOWE-GARY EXONERATED to the latest line, proclaiming: JAP-SOVIET WAR OFF--PLANET SECURITY FIRST. "Did we do this?" he muttered dazedly.

Whitlowe's grin was satanic. "All ours. Now if this were only some harmless little hoax, designed to bring peace on earth, it would be fine. But, unfortunately the Martians are good and nasty--and well-heeled as far as armament goes, apparently. According to the press reports, of course.

"They wouldn't have come if they hadn't been invited. However, it seems to me, that, once we try to welsh, it will be war to the knife. And I wouldn't be surprised if they did have terrific stuff up their sleeves."

Gary tried to picture the Martians with sleeves, but soon gave up. He scanned another headline: BALKAN STATES FORM DEMOCRATIC UNION. NO MORE WAR.

Gary poured himself an enormous mug of something, sipped at it, and set it down with a mouth of disgust. "Remembering what happened the last time I got tanked, I don't care to repeat the experience," he growled.

"Okay. It won't be wasted," grunted Whitlowe, emptying the mug. "Now, how about taking a crack at the communications angle--fishing for Martians in the depths of space . . ."

They turned into another room, filled with an elaboration of their previous apparatus, equipped with a scanner device that covered cubic miles of space, automatically registering and indicating foreign bodies. Dully they turned the thing on, and, after about a half hour of random scouting and reeling in meteors celestial--equivalent of rubber boots and old bottles--they came on a Martian, who smiled in amiable greeting.

Outside, newspaper headlines read: WORLD COUNCIL FORMED; CITIES OF EARTH PREPARE BLACKOUTS.


GARY YIPPED agitatedly into the phone. "They're landing in about twelve hours, chief. We flashed them a little while ago; Whit's still talking to them. He's got their flagship."

Blocks away Major General Wylie scratched his head. "Maybe," he said, "you can talk them out of landing--?"

"We'll try, General. I'll talk to Whit."

He hung up, whispered out of the corner of his mouth to the little man: "Stall them. Wylie says to try to stop them from landing."

Whitlowe, who had been exchanging politenesses with one of the Martians through the lens, wiped his brow. "Friend," he called across space in a strained voice, "perhaps you can disengage yourself long enough to permit us to speak with your Director."

"Certainly," replied the Martian. "He's been waiting."

The visage of the Planet Manager appeared in the screen. "Ah," he said bluffly. "Dashed grateful and all--you know?"

Oh Judas, Whitlowe groaned to himself, can't I forget that British affectation? But his innate sense of humor refused to be budged. "How do you do, sir?" he said lamely.