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

"Happy we're on our way at last, young man. Understand? Had our ships for centuries--wouldn't come without a contact and invitation from you--boorish and all that. Then you and your machine--thingumbob you know."

"It's about that I wanted to talk with you. I'd like to know if you've brought any--armaments with you."

"Bah! Of course. Race of soldiers, understand. Military life--life blood of our planet. Always organized--deuced struggle for existence. Might meet wild beasts--disease. You think?"

"Very unlikely, sir. I'm sure we can cope with our planetary dangers to your satisfaction. Why not lighten your ships for an easy landing?"

"What's this? Jettison our weapons? Unheard of, by gad! And the suggestion--if I may say so--dashed impertinence and all that. Nothing personal, of course--present company--understand?"

"Martian tradition?" asked Whitlowe hastily.

"Quite, young man. Just so. Millions of years. Dashed nuisance now, perhaps, but it wouldn't be the thing. No show--whippersnappers--understand?"

"Perfectly," said Whitlowe with a heavy heart. He tried another tack. "Where do you expect to land?"

"Right here--wilderness. "The Director produced a globe of Earth, held a reading glass of enormous power over a tiny section. "You know the spot?"

"Yes," replied Whitlowe, studying it. "We call it New Jersey. Good place to land, too. "To himself he prayed they'd fall into the middle of a swamp and stay there. "About how many ships?"

"In round numbers, two thousand, each containing a thousand Martians. We aren't a numerous people, but," the Director grinned, "a powerful one."

"Excuse me," said Whitlowe, reaching for the tracer device. "I'll have to sign off now. But we'll keep our lens on you till after you land. All right?"

"Perfectly. Carry on!" The Martian's image faded from the screen and Whitlowe snapped into action, reaching for two telephones at once and barking orders to Gary. "Get Wylie and have him mobilize all available infantry and tanks for concentration outside of Glenwood, New Jersey." And then, into one of the phones: "Mayor? I'm Whitlowe of the commission. Evacuate Glenwood completely within four hours. Arrangements will be made for you in New York City--you'll get confirmation and full instructions in a few minutes. "Then, into another: "Admiral? You'll get the chance, now. Move the fleet up the Hudson, aiming at the swamps to the North East of Glenwood, New Jersey. Confirmation from the White House and full instructions will follow. Firing orders will come only from the Commission."

He snatched a phone from Gary. "Public Works?" he barked. "This is Whitlowe of the Commission. Get every inch of barbed wire in North America and recruit every volunteer male you can get to have it strung around Glenwood, New Jersey's swamps. Deadline's four hours--they'll be here at"--he glanced at his watch--"eleven-thirty. Right? Right."

He turned to Gary with haunted eyes. "That's that," he said slowly. "It isn't a joke any more. I don't think I'll ever laugh again. Let's get out and give the unhappy town of Glenwood, New Jersey a speedy double-o."


UP THE HUDSON steamed the dawn-grey might of the combined battle-fleets of North, Central, and South America. Japan's was on the way, not yet there. They were anchoring; guns were swinging toward the Jersey side, ready to drop shells within the neat rectangle bordered by several hundred miles of twisted and double-taped electrified barbed wire.

"Well," said Gary, hefting the audio pack he was strapped into.

"Okay," said Whitlowe, taking up a mike and tuning in. "Do not be alarmed," he called to the Martian. "This is a wound-circuit without vision--we are on the grounds where you decided to land, with areception committee, and were unable to bring along the heavier vision-circuit."

"You, is it?" the hearty voice of the Director replied. "Well, we'll be down in dashed little time--ready to start our bally lives over again, what?"

"Yes," said Whitlowe, gulping. He signalled an aide, who came running with record tape.

"No change in your landing plans?" asked Whitlowe desperately.

"None whatsoever. Decide and carry through--understand? Down in thirteen minutes, every one of the two thousand. Excuse me."

Whitlowe snapped off the set. "Can you hear anything?" he asked the aide.

"No, sir. But we should--two thousand big ships, didn't he say?"

"They each carry a thousand Martians, so they must be big. But we ought to hear them--or, if they're silent, we should feel the wind. I don't understand."