CANTATA-141

13

At the breakfast table in the small kitchen of his conapt, Jim Briskin ate, and at the same time he carefully read the morning edition of the homeopape, finding in it, as a kind of minor melody in the momentous fugue which was playing itself out in heroic style, one item almost lost within the account of the migration of men and women to alter-Earth.

The first couple to cross over, Art and Rachael Chaffy, had been Cols. And the second couple,

Stuart and Mrs. Hadley, had been white. It was exactly the sort of neat and tidy detail which appeared to Jim Briskin's sense of proportion, and he relaxed a little, enjoying his breakfast. Sal would be pleased by this, too, he realized. I'll have to remember to mention it to him when I see him later on this morning.

President Schwarz missed something, he reflected, by not noticing this minuscule fact at the time it was occurring. Schwarz could have made an extra-special superior speech to the two couples, presenting them with large gaudy plastic keys to the alternate universe, disclosing to them that they're a symbol of a new epic era in racial relations ... as arranged for, of course, by the State's

Rights Conservation Democratic Party in all its full and healthy glory. Some minion on Schwarz'

staff slipped up, there, and should be fired.

He turned on the TV, then, to see if there was any later news. Had TD's engineering corps got the higher-yield power supply in operation yet, and if so, had the aperture been affected in the way anticipated ? By now a lot more emigrants should have joined the Chaffys and the Hadleys there on the other side. He wondered if the Pithecanthropi-Sinanthropi people had taken notice already ... had the crucial Augenblick, as the Germans put it, arrived by now ? While he had slept ?

On the TV screen the image gathered, became stable and fixed. But it was not what he had expected. The image had a certain grainy texture, familiar to him; it was emanating from a satellite which was still too far away. The sound, too, was distorted. It would, of course, clear up as the satellite moved closer, if it was moving in this direction and not away. What was going on ? What was this peculiar program, anyhow ? He leaned toward the speaker, trying to untangle the garble of words.

The video image became clarified, then. It was a head, the mutual head of the mutants George

Walt. Its mouth opened and it spoke. 'I am king, now,' George Walt declared. 'I have at my disposal up here an entire army of what you'd like to think of as "near" men but which are actually - as you are about to find out and not from me - the legitimate tenants of this world and every other alternative Earth running parallel to us. You'd be surprised at the type of scientific discoveries which the Peking race - and I call them that merely as a means by which to identify them - have made over the centuries. They can, for instance, warp time and also space to suit their needs. They've tapped sources of energy unknown to you Homo sapiens. I have with me here in the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite the wisest and kindest philosopher from among their great people. Just a moment.' George Walt's head disappeared from the screen.

Merciful lord, Jim Briskin thought. He sat staring at the TV set, unable to take his eyes from it.

George Walt are back, and they're out of their mind.

That's all we need, Jim said to himself. A crazy George Walt up there in their satellite, spinning around us. Now we've really got troubles.

His vidphone rang; automatically, he made his way over to answer it. 'Not just now,' he murmured. 'Call me later; I'm busy - '

'Don't hang up.' It was Tito Cravelli, sweating and agitated. 'I see you've got your TV set on.

He ... they have been broadcasting all morning, since about eight o'clock East Coast time.

They're going to bring that Peke sage back on again; this is a video tape, it's running over and over again. Get a load of this so-called philosopher; you've never seen anything like it in your life. And then call me back.' Tito hung up.

Jim Briskin numbly returned to the TV set to listen and watch.

'I can walk through wood,' the TV set was saying, but it was not George Walt, now. It was as

Tito had said, a Peking man, Sinanthropus telecasting from the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. So George Walt... now you're in politics, Jim Briskin said to himself. And in a big way, too.

And we thought we were bad off before.

'Not only can I walk through wood,' the white-haired, massive-browed, enormous-chinned, ancient-looking Sinanthropus said, in reasonably good but somewhat mumbled English, 'but I

can make myself invisible. The god of air empowers me wherever I go. He fills the sails of life with his magic breath, capable of accomplishing all things. Poor, puny Homo sapiens creatures!

How could you conceivably expect to infest our world, with the Wind God himself present ?'

By the Wind God, Jim Briskin realized with a sickened, enervating start, was meant George Walt.

He had never before quite thought of them that way, but there it was.

Let's see how President Schwarz decides to handle this,, he said to himself. A Wind God in a satellite over our heads millions of fossil men straining to get at us. Darius Pethel can have his defective Jiffi-scuttler back; it's time we got rid of it, and by the quickest route possible. But how did this ancient Sinanthropus so-called philosopher get across to our world ? Didn't anybody at

TD notice his coming through ?

They must have opened their own nexus, he decided. Either that or what he says is actually true; he can make himself invisible.

It was a gloomy prospect, having to wake up in the early morning and face this, to say the least.

And somebody has really lost this election now, he decided. Either Bill Schwarz or myself, depending on whom the electorate, in its understandable frenzy, decides to blame.

Going back to the kitchen table he seated himself and resumed eating his breakfast, now cold. As he mechanically ate, he pondered the chances of successfully shooting down the Golden Door satellite; surely that was the most likely next move for President Schwarz. After all, the exact position of the satellite at any given moment was known; it was - or had been until recently -

printed on the entertainment page of every homeopape.

What I'm afraid of now, he realized, is that I'll look out the window of my decently private conapt and see Peking man walking along the sidewalk, and not just one but many of them.

He decided not to look, just to be on the safe side. At least not for a while. Instead he concentrated on finishing his breakfast, tasteless as it had become. As trivial a task as it was, at least it was a familiar event; it helped restore his sense of the regularity of reality.

Turning from the TV set Sal Heim released his emotion in an explosion of words. 'Call someone,' he said to his wife. 'Call Jim Briskin. Wait a minute; call Bill Schwarz at the White

House - I'll talk to him direct myself. This is a national emergency; anybody with half an eye can see that Party loyalty is out, you can wipe your nose on it. Let me know as soon as you have Bill

Schwarz on the line.' He returned to watching the TV.

'Not only can I walk through wood and across the surface of water,' the great old Peking man on the screen was saying, 'But I can annihilate time.'

Good grief, Sal thought. This is awful. They can do all kinds of things we can't; they're centuries ahead of us. Who around here that I know can annihilate time ? No one. He groaned aloud.

Pat said hecticly, 'I can't reach President Schwarz. The lines are tied up. Everybody must be...'

'Of course they are,' Sal said. 'The authorities know what this means. It's hopeless to try to get through to Schwarz. He'll have to get on the TV himself and tell the nation that a state of war exists between us and these dawn men. Or is this stuff on all channels ?' Savagely, he turned the knob. The same image appeared on every other channel; the satellite was blanketing the airwaves. He was not surprised. I might have known, he said to himself with envenomed bitterness. Next we'll be picking them up on the vidphone.

'But more important than anything else,' the white-haired Peking man on the TV screen was saying, 'I can work exceeding wonderful, powerful magic. For I am a mighty magician; I can cause the stars to fall from the vault of the heavens and confusion to blind the eyes of all my foes. What do you respond to that, tiny Homo sapiens ? You should have cogitated on that before you invested our world. Facilis descensus Averno. You see, through my use of supernatural forces, entirely unknown to your little race, I can speak in German.'

'Latin,' Sal murmured. 'You damn fool dawn man; that's Latin. So you don't know everything.

Get off the TV so President Schwarz can declare war.' The image, however, remained.

Standing by his chair Patricia said, 'I guess this finishes Jim at the polls.'

'Didn't I just now get through saying that party doesn't count ?' He glared at her; Pat shrank back.

'To cope with this we've got to think along entirely novel lines - everything is changed. I noticed one interesting thing. When George Walt were on they referred to us as "you Homo sapiens."

Does that mean they're not ? My god, you can't become a converted Sinanthropus; it's not like a church. I really have to talk to someone about this besides you,' he said scathingly to his wife.

'Someone who can come up with answers.'

Pat said, 'What about ?'

'Wait,' He turned back to the TV screen. George Walt had once more appeared. 'They look older,'

Sal said. 'I can't remember which of them is the artificial body. The one on right, as I recall. The real one has certainly done a good job of building it back, after we tore it to pieces.' He chuckled.

'We had them on the run, then. Our finest hour.' Once more he became grim. 'Too bad it's not like that now.'

'You know who I was going to suggest you call ? Tito Cravelli. He always seems to be able to figure out what's happening.'

'Okay.' He nodded absently. 'Give me the phone; I'll call Tito.' He got to his feet, then. 'No, I'll get it myself. Why should you wait on me ?' At the vidphone he paused and turned toward her.

'I'm sure it's the one on the right. You know, I'll bet at this moment everybody, including even

Verne Engel and every last damn member of that rotten bunch CLEAN, would give his shirt if we could go back to, say, a month ago. To the way we were and the so-called "race problem" we had then. That's who I ought to call: Verne Engel. You know what I'd say to him ? "You stupid bastard, does what you're fighting for look so real now ? Skin pigment. What a laugh! Why not eye color ? Too bad nobody ever thought of that. It cuts it a little finer, but basically it's the same thing. Okay, Verne, you get out there and die over the issue of upholding one certain eye color.

Lots of luck." ' Picking up the vidphone he dialed.

Pat said, 'What color eyes do Peking men have ?' Glaring at her Sal said, 'Christ, how would I

know ?' 'I just wondered. I never thought of it before.' 'Hello, Tito ?' Sal said, as the vidscreen lighted. 'Get us out of this,' Sal said. 'Find where they're getting through into our world and plug it up, an then we'll figure out how to knock down the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite.

You agree ? Tito, say something.'

'I know where they're getting through,' Tito said, laconically.

Sal turned to his wife. 'You were right. He does know.' He turned back to the vidscreen. 'Well, what do we do ? How do we...'

'We make a deal,' Tito Cravelli said in a harsh, totally dry voice.

Staring at him Sal said, 'We what ? I don't believe it.'

'And we'll be lucky if we can manage that,' Tito added. 'There are a few things you don't know,

Sal. This attack on us by the Pekes is coming out of a hundred years in the future. George Walt have had an entire century to work with them, filling in the gaps in their culture, teaching them as many of our techniques as they could cram into them in that time... and it's a very long time.

Don't ask me how I found this out; just take my word that it's the case. The nexus that they're using is at TD, but we can't dose it; they're supplying it with power from the other side, a possibility which doesn't seem to have occurred to anyone at TD until it was too late. In other words, until now.'

'What kind of deal ?'

'I don't know yet. I'm seeing Jim Briskin in a few moments; we're going to try to think of something we can offer them - offer George Walt actually, since they're doing the talking. As I

see it, the Pekes don't actually need to expand into our world; they haven't even filled up their own. They have no pressing population problem, as we have. So there may be something they want and can use more than mere land. Because that's all they're going to find if they try to come over here. I know damn well our people will put up a fight until there's nothing left standing. It'll be a scorched-earth planet... we can promise them that. As a starter.'

Turning to Pat, Sal said, 'We're going to make a deal; there's no other way out.'

'I heard,' she said. 'I wish I hadn't; I didn't want to hear that.'

'Isn't that something ? Our ancestors didn't make a deal. They wiped the Pekes out.'

'But now,' Pat said, 'they have George Walt.'

He nodded. Evidently that made the difference. But he had a terrible feeling that Tito Cravelli was wrong as to the quantity of techniques that George Walt had passed on to the Pekes. His intuition was that the transfer of knowledge had gone the other way: it had been the Pekes who had educated George Walt.

Jim Briskin said half-ironically, 'We can offer them the Encyclopedia Britannica, translated into their language.' If they have a written language, he added to himself. Or if George Walt haven't given them that already. 'Maybe George Walt have passed them everything they'll ever need,' he said to Tito Cravelli, who sat moodily facing him across the room. 'I'd assume that during the next century George Walt probably have gone back and forth continually.' He could picture it, and it was not encouraging.

'Who can we ask for help from ?' Sal Heim said, to no one in particular. 'Call God.' His wife patted his arm, sympathetically. 'Don't do that,' Sal complained. 'It distracts me. In the name of something-or-other there must be somebody we can turn to.'

The vidphone rang and Tito Cravelli rose to answer it After a few moments he returned. 'That was my contact at TD. At this moment, while we're sitting here muttering pointless maledictions,

Pekes are pouring through the rent.'

Everyone in the room stared at him.

'That's right,' Tito said, nodding. "So already now the TD administration building is full of then; in fact they're beginning to leak out into downtown Washington, D.C. Leon Turpin's been conversing with President Schwarz, but so far ...' He shrugged. 'They erected a concrete barrier in front of the rent but the Pekes simply moved the rent to one side. And kept on coming across.' He added, 'Bohegian, my contact, is leaving the TD building; they're being evacuated.'

'Christ,' Sal Heim said. 'Christ, sweet shimmering Christ.'

Pat Heim said, 'You know who I'd like to see you talk to ?' She glanced around at the others. 'Bill

Smith.'

'Who's that ?' Cravelli asked sharply. 'Oh yeah. The Peke. That anthropologist Dillingsworth has him. What could Bill Smith tell us ?'

'He would know what they lack,' Patricia said. 'Maybe for instance they've been trying for a dozen centuries to achieve a space drive. We could turn a small rocket engine over to them, one with only a million pounds of thrust or so. Or maybe they don't have music. Think what it would mean: we could start them out with single instruments such as the harmonica or the Jew's harp or the electric guitar

'Yes,' Cravelli agreed acidly, 'But George Walt have already done that. At least, we've got to assume that. You heard that Peke talking Latin; I didn't grasp, really genuinely grasp, how much

George Walt have accomplished until I heard that ... then I threw in the sponge. I don't mind admitting it; that's when I gave up, pure and simple.'

'And decided to plead for a deal,' Sal Heim said, half to himself.

'That's right,' Cravelli said. 'Then I knew we had to come to some kind of terms. It didn't terrify you to hear Sinanthropus talking Latin ? It should have.'

'I've got it,' Pat Heim said. 'That one Sinanthropus, that old white-haired so-called philosopher up in the satellite, he's a mutant. More evolved than the others, greater cranial area or something, especially in the forehead region. Unique. George Wall are pulling the wool over our eyes.'

'But they are pouring through the nexus rent,' Cravelli said coldly. 'Whether they speak Latin or don't. If Leon Turpin has ordered the TD administration building evacuated, you know it's critical.'

'I've got it,' Pat said, 'Oh my god, I've really got it. Listen to me. Let's turn the Smithsonian

Institute over to the Pekes, in exchange for them leaving. What about that ?'

'Institution,' Cravelli said, correcting her.

'And if that's not enough,' Pat said, 'we'll throw in the Library of Congress. They'd be smart to take that. What an offer!'

'You know,' Sal said, hunching forward and gazing steadily down at his knees, 'she may have something there. Look what they'd get out of that; the entire assembled, collected artifacts and knowledge of our culture. A hell of a lot more - incredibly much more - than George Walt can give them.

It's the wisdom of four thousand years. Boy, I tell you; I'd take it in a second if it were offered to me.'

After a long pause Tito Cravelli said, 'But we're forgetting something. None of us are in a position to make the Pekes any kind of offer; none of us hold any official position in the government. Now, if you were already in office, Jim...'

Take it to Schwarz, 'Sal said.

'We'd have to,' Pat agreed rapidly. 'And that means going to the White House, since the phone lines are all tied up. Which one of us would Schwarz be willing to see ? Assuming he'd see any of us.'

Sal said, 'It would have to be Jim.'

Shrugging, Jim Briskin said, 'I'll go. It's better than merely sitting around here talking.' It all seemed futile to him anyhow. But at least this way he'd be doing something.

'Who're you going to take the offer to ultimately ?' Cravelli asked him. 'Bill Smith ?'

'No, Jim said. 'To that white-haired Sinanthropi philosopher up in the satellite.' Obviously, he was the one to go to; he held the power.

'George Walt aren't going to like it when they hear it,' Cravelli pointed out. 'You'll have to talk fast; they'll do their best to shut you up.'

'I know,' Jim said, rising to his fed and moving toward the door. 'I'll phone you from Washington and let you know how I made out.'

As he left the apartment, he heard Sal saying, 'I think, though, we ought to take the Spirit of St

Louis out when the Pekes aren't looking and keep it. They won't know it's gone; what do they know about airplanes ?"

'And the Wright brothers' plane,' Pat said, as he started to shut the door after him. He paused, then, as he heard her 'Do you think he'll get in to see President Schwarz ?'

'Not a chance,' Sal said emphatically. 'But what else am we do ? It's the best we could come up with on such short notice.'

'He'll get in,' Cravelli disagreed. 'I'll make you a dime bet.'

'You know what else we could have offered ?' Pat said. 'The Washington Monument.'

'What the hell would the Pekes do with that ?' Sal demanded.

Jim shut the door after him and walked down the corridor to the elevator. None of them, he reflected, had offered to come with him. But what difference did it make ? There was nothing they could do vis-a-vis President Schwarz ... and perhaps nothing he could do, either. And even if he did get in to see Schwarz, and even if Schwarz went along with the idea - how far did that carry him ? What were the chances that he could sell the Sinanthropi philosopher on the idea with George Walt present ?

But I'm still going to try it, he decided. Because the alternative, a general war, would doom our colonists there on the other side; it's their lives we're trying to save.

And anyhow, he realized, none of us wants to start slaughtering the Peking people. It would be too much like the old days, back among our cave-dwelling ancestors. Back to their level. We must have grown out of that by now, he said to himself. And if we haven't - what does it matter who wins ?

Four hours later, from a public vidphone booth in downtown Washington, D.C., Jim Briskin called back to report. He felt bone-weary and more than a little depressed, but at least the first hurdle had been jumped successfully.

'So he liked the idea,' Tito Cravelli said.

Jim said, 'Schwarz is madly grasping at any straw he can find, and there aren't even very many of them. Everyone in Washington is prepared to shoot down the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite, of course; they'll do that if my attempt at negotiation fails, my attempt to split George

Walt off from the Pekes.'

'If we shoot down the satellite,' Cravelli said, 'then we'd have to fight to the bitter death. Either our race or theirs would be wiped out, and we can't have that, not in this day and age. With the weapons we've got and what they possibly have...'

'Schwarz realizes that. He appreciate all the nuances of the situation. But he can't just sit idle while Pekes pour across at will. We're walking a highly tricky line. It's not in our interest to make this into a full-scale hydrogen bomb war, and yet we don't want simply to capitulate.

Schwarz says to go ahead with the Smithsonian, but to hold back on the Library of Congress as long as possible, to give it up only under the greatest pressure. I tend to agree.' He added,

'They're sending me up there; I'll do it myself.'

'Why you ? What's the matter with the State Department ? Don't they have anyone who can do that sort of work any more ?

'I asked to go.'

'You're nuts. George Walt hates you already.'

'Yes,' Jim agreed, 'but I think I know how to handle this; I've got an idea of how I can impair the relationship between George Walt and the Pekes in such a way that it can't be repaired. Anyhow, it's worth a try.'

'Don't tell me what your idea is,' Cravelli said. 'Tell me after it works. If it doesn't work, don't tell me at all.'

Jim grinned starkly. 'You're a hard man. You might be too ruthless as Attorney General; I'll have to rethink that, possibly.'

'It's signed and sealed,' Cravelli said. 'You can't get out of it. Good luck up on the satellite.' He rang off, then.

Leaving the phone booth, Jim Briskin walked along the half-deserted sidewalk until he came to a parked, empty jet-hopper.

'Take me to the Golden Door satellite,' he said, opening the door and getting in.

"The Golden Door is closed down,' the 'hopper driven said languidly. 'No more girls up there.

Just some goof broadcasting that he's king of the world or some crazy thing like that.' He turned to face Jim. 'However, I know a gnuvvy doggone place in the north west side of town that I can...'

'The satellite,' Jim said. 'Okay ? Just drive the 'hopper and let me decide where I want to go.'

'You Cols,' the driver muttered as he started the 'hopper up. 'You sure always got a chip on your shoulder. All right, buddy, have it your way. But you're going to be disappointed when you get up there.'

Silently, Jim leaned back against the seat and sat waiting as the 'hopper rose into the sky.

At the landing field on the satellite, George Walt personally met him, hand outstretched. 'This is

George,' the head said, as Jim shook hands with whichever of them it was. 'I knew they'd want to talk terms, but I didn't expect them to send you, Briskin.'

'This is Walt,' the head said then, belligerently. 'I certainly have no desire to do business with you, Briskin. Go back and tell them ...' The mouth struggled as both brothers sought to make use of it simultaneously.

'What does it matter who they send ?' the head - no doubt George, now - said at last. 'Come below to the office, Briskin, where we can make ourselves comfortable. I have a hunch this darn business might take quite a while.'

It was extraordinary how much George Walt had aged. They had a wrinkled, brittle, almost frail quality about them, and when they walked they moved slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of falling, as if they were terribly infirm. What would account for this ? Jim wondered. And then he understood. George Walt were now jerries. One hundred years had passed for them since he had last seen them. He wondered how much longer they could keep going. Certainly not for too great a period. But their mental energies were undimmed. He could still sense the enormous alertness emanating from them; they remained as formidable as ever.

In George Walt's office sat the huge, white-haired old Sinanthropus; he watched warily from beneath his beetling brows as Jim Briskin entered, obviously suspicious at once. It would be no easy task, Jim realized, to come to terms with this man. Mistrust was profoundly written on his massive-jawed, sloping face.

'We've got them where we want them,' George Walt said expansively to the Sinanthropus. This man's coming up here - Jim Briskin is his name - verifies it.' Both eyes flamed with gloating.

In a hoarse voice, the Sinanthropus said, 'What will you offer us if we abandon your world ?'

Jim Briskin said, 'That which we prize beyond everything elite. Our most valued possession.'

The Sinanthropus and George Walt watched him fixedly.

"The Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.,' Jim said.

'Wait a minute' / 'We're not interested in that!' George Walt said together. "That won't do; that's out of the question. We want political and economic priority over the North American land mass

- otherwise the invasion continues. What kind of offer is the Smithsonian ? That's nothing but a museum.' / 'Who wants a museum ? This is ridiculous!' Both eyes blazed with outraged and uneasy anger.

The Sinanthropus, however, said slowly and distinctly, 'I am reading Mr. Briskin's mind, and I

am interested. Please be silent. Wind God, it goes without saying that your opinion is valuable, but it is I who must make the actual decision,"

"The conference is over!' / 'I've heard enough,' George Walt said. 'Go back below to Terra,

Briskin; you're not wanted here.' / 'Let's call this off.'

'There is, in the back of your mind,' the Sinanthropus said to Jim, 'the thought that you will, if pressed, add in the Library of Congress. I will consider that offer as well.'

'We'd prefer not to add that,' Jim said, 'but if we have to, we have to.' He felt resigned.

'Goodbye, Briskin,' George Walt said. 'See you some time. It's evident that you're trying to make a side deal, here; trying to cut my brother and me out. But we won't be cut out.' The head added emphatically, 'I agree. You're completely wasting your time, Briskin.' One of George Walt's four arms was extended, then, 'Until next time.'

'Until next time,' Jim said, shaking hands. Taking a deep, unsteady breath he all at once yanked with every dyne of strength which he could muster; the hand and arm came loose from the artificial body and he was left holding them.

Bewildered, the Sinanthropus said, 'Wind God, it seems strange to me that your arm is detachable.'

'This is no Wind God,' Jim Briskin said. 'You've been misled. Our people were, too, for a good long time. This is an ordinary man with an extra, artificial body.' He pointed to the wiring visible within the gaping shoulder.

'A Homo sapiens, you mean ?' the stooped old Sinanthropus said. 'Like yourself ?' Slow but exact comprehension began to form in his reddish eyes.

'Not only is he not a Wind God,' Jim said, 'but he's been for decades the owner of a ... I dislike naming it outright.'

'Name it!'

'Let's simply call it a house of pleasure. He's a businessman. No more, no less.'

'I can think of nothing more obnoxious to the mores of my people,' the Sinanthropus said to

George Walt, 'than a hoax of this stripe. You swore to us that you were our Wind God. And in fulfillment of many myths, your unusual anatomy seemed to prove it.' He panted slowly, raggedly.

' "Unusual",' George Walt echoed. 'You mean unique. In all of the parallel Earths - and God knows exactly how many there may be, you won't find anyone, anyone at all, like me.' He amended quickly, 'Like us, rather. And consider this satellite. What do you think keeps it up ?

The wind, of course; how else could it stay up here, month after month ? Obviously I control the wind, as I told you. Otherwise this satellite would...'

'I could destroy you,' the old Sinanthropus said. He no longer seemed much impressed by George

Walt's line of argument. 'But I am frankly too disappointed to care one way or another. It's clear to me, and I will soon see that it's equally clear to my people, that you Homo sapiens are a treacherous lot. Probably best avoided.' To Jim he said, 'It's that so ?'

'We're known for that,' Jim agreed.

'And that's how you triumphed originally over our ancestors on this parallel world ?'

'You're damn right,' Jim said. He added, 'And we'd do it again, given half a chance.'

'Probably you would not genuinely have delivered that museum of yours to us,' the Sinanthropus said, 'the name of which I have already forgotten. Well, no matter. Obviously it's impossible to do business with you Homo sapiens; you're adept, polished liars. Nothing we agreed on would remain truly binding in such a milieu. My people lack even a name for such conduct.'

'No wonder we had so little trouble wiping you out,' Jim said.

'In view of your dedication to fraud,' the Sinanthropus said, 'I see no real point in my remaining here; the longer I go on, the more immersed I become. Personally, I regret this whole encounter; my people have suffered by it already. God knows what would become of us if we were so naive as to try to continue.' An unhappy expression on his face, the aged, white-haired Sinanthropus turned his back and walked away from Jim Briskin and George Walt. 'It would be unnatural for people of our race to seek to participate in an exclusively destructive relationship,' he said, over his shoulder. And vanished. One moment he stood there, the next he had gone. Even George

Walt seemed taken aback; both eyes blinked. The Sinanthropus, by means of his so called magic, had returned to his own world.

'Smart,' George Walt said, presently. "You handled that extremely well, Briskin. I never saw it coming. One hundred years of work gone down the drain. Give me my arm back and we'll call it quits; I'm too old to go through this kind of thing any more.' The head added, "You're probably right. After all, politically speaking, Briskin is a professional; he can run rings around us. What happened here just now demonstrates that.'

'Honesty generally wins out,' Jim said.

'You call that trash you peddled to that half-animal just now - you call that honesty ? I never heard such a mass of twisted ...' George Walt broke off, then. 'Like everybody else, I more or less trusted you, Briskin. It never occurred to me you'd trade on such techniques to win an issue.

Your integrity's just a myth! Probably dreamed up by your campaign manager.'

'You mean you actually are their Wind God ?'

'Pragmatically speaking, yes. Every one of us, in relation to them, are gods ... speaking in terms of the evolutionary hierarchy, anyhow, in the broadest possible sense.'

Jim said, 'Was it you who enabled them to shoot apart the QB observation satellite ?'

Nodding, George Walt said, 'Yes, it was. By my magic.'

'What you mean,' Jim said, 'is that you ferried a ground-to-air guided missile over to them.

Magic, my foot.' He looked at his wristwatch. 'I have to get back down to Earth; I've got a major speech to record. You care to accompany me back to my 'hopper ?'

'I'm busy,' George Walt said curtly. 'I have to fit my arm back on. This whole business makes me sick, and not only that, terribly angry; I'm going to initiate beamed broadcasts twenty-four hours a day on all frequencies denouncing you, as soon as I can get the satellite's transmitter started up again. I look forward to your losing in November, Briskin; that's the one nice thing I can count on.'

'Suit yourself,' Jim said, shrugging. He left the office, made his way to the elevator. Behind him,

George Walt brought a tool kit out from their desk and began the task of repairing the damage to the artificial body which Jim Briskin had purposefully accomplished. The expression on George

Walt's face was one of great gloom.

In his entrenched position, along with other company personnel, on the outskirts of the flank of the TD administration building in Washington, D.C., Don Stanley noted all at once, and to his complete surprise, a sudden lull in the fierce racket from the Pekes within.

'Some darn thing has happened,' Howard conjectured, also aware of the unexpected silence. 'We better get set for another rush; they're probably determined to overwhelm us this time. Before that idiot Schwarz can get army...'

'Wait,' Stanley said, listening. 'You know what I think ? I think the fliegemer Pekes are gone.'

Puzzled, Howard said, 'Gone where ?'

Rising to his haunches Stanley peered at the administration building, at the shattered windows on the nearest side, and the conviction came to him stronger than ever that the building was now, for some totally obscure and merciful reason, deserted. With caution, aware of the acute risk he was taking, he began to walk slowly step by step toward the front entrance.

'They'll pop you out of existence,' Howard called to him warningly, 'with those funny little weapons of theirs; better get back down, you half-wit.' But he, too, stood up. So did a number of armed company police.

Opening the familiar front door of the building, Stanley peeped inside.

He saw no sign of Pekes anywhere. The halls were empty and silent. The invasion by the chinless dawn men from the parallel Earth had ceased as abruptly as it had begun, and somewhat more mysteriously.

Howard, joining him, said, 'Um, we scared them off.'

'Scared them off nothing. They changed their collective minds.' Stanley started in the direction of the elevator leading to the floor one subsurface labs. "I have an intuition,' he said over his shoulder to Howard. 'And I want to verify it as soon as I can.'

When he and Howard reached the labs, Stanley discovered that he was right ... and a good thing, too. The nexus joining the two parallel Earths had vanished.

'They ... closed it down,' Howard said, wonderingly craning his neck, as if expecting to see it crop up once more in a remote corner.

'So now,' Stanley murmured, 'our problem is to reopen our own earlier nexus. The original one.

And make the try to relocate our colonists before the moment in which they're wiped out.' The chances of success struck him as being not very good, and yet of course the attempt had to be made.

'Why do you think they called their invasion off ?' Howard asked.

Stanley gestured emptily. 'Maybe they didn't like it here after all.' Who knew ? Certainly he did not. Perhaps they would never know. In any case they had their work cut out for them; several thousand men and women on the other side were wholly dependent on them for their lives. For their safe return to this world. Remembering the human skeletons which had been dredged up from the swamp a hundred years hence. Stanley felt deep forebodings. At best we can only save some of them, he realized. But that's better than nothing. Even if we save only one life, it's worth it.

'How long do you think it'll take to make contact with our people stranded over there ?' Howard asked him. 'A day ? As long as a week ?'

'Let's find out,' Stanley said shortly, and started at once in the direction of the power supply of

Dar Pethel's defective Jiffi-scuttler.

The depressing task of bringing the colonists back from alter-Earth had begun.