Maxwell was a restlesssleeper. I had finally crept into the lower depths of slumber, where itwas warm and snug, when he poked me sharply in the ribs.
"What's that?" he demanded. He was sitting up.
"What's what?"
"Listen!"
I heard it. _Click-click-click...._
"What time is it?" I asked. My eyes were still closed, and I was damnedif I was going to open them.
"Three fifty-seven. But what is--"
"Defense mech," I said. "Right on time. Every twelve hours. Tries to getme. Now go sleep."
I rolled over and shut my eyes even tighter--but I couldn't get all theway back to sleep. Not back down to the warm, dark depths. It was a longtime before Maxwell even lay back down, and he rolled and twisted forthe rest of the night. At six o'clock, he fell into a deep, quietslumber, and I was wide awake, damn him. So I got up and dressed.
I found a news magazine I hadn't read, and occupied myself with it foran hour. Practically the entire issue was devoted to an analysis of theMartian immigration.
It went way back into history and discussed the folklore fear thathumans had for centuries about a Martian invasion. And it pointed outthat something very like a Martian invasion was taking place right now.One particular article concluded with what I considered an unnecessarilygrim warning that unless something were done soon to check the flow ofimmigrants, Earth would soon be overrun with Martians.
Other articles in the magazine went into the causes and implications ofthe migration. One of the writers pointed out that Mars is a dyingplanet. In only a few thousand years, it will be too cold, too dry andtoo airless to support life.
The development of interplanetary travel a century earlier had providedthe inhabitants with a means of escape. They could survive on Earth; nowthey could get to Earth; so they came to Earth.
One full article was devoted to the debates and pending legislation inWorld Council on the subject, but I didn't take the time to read it. Iwas fairly familiar with the current controversy, having followed thedaily news reports, and besides, the reading was giving me a headache.
* * * * *
At seven o'clock, I considered going down for breakfast, but it occurredto me that it would be another black mark against Maxwell if I should beseen without him. Forgetting about the defense mech was enough for onecase.
So I ordered breakfast brought up to the room. While I was waiting, andsince I was sitting near it anyway, I flicked the TV switch and tuned inon the morning's news. Nothing earthshaking: a factory explosion in St.Louis; political unrest in India; death of a Vegan millionaire; speechin The World Council by Delegate Machavowski of Eurasia in support ofthe Bagley-Dalton bill to establish a yearly immigration quota of tenthousand from all planets, one thousand from Mars; protest reply by aMartian sociologist at Yale; spacecruiser crashed on Calypso, twentykilled. And so on and so on.
My attention was held momentarily by the Martian question, since I wasfreshly informed on it.
While the two views of the issue did nothing to settle it in my mind,they did serve to remind me of my Martian friend, Zan Matl Blekeke, andthe fact that I was supposed to be digging up a feature story onSuns-Rays Incorporated.
"What's on the agenda for today?" my pseudo-brother-in-law asked as Iwas finishing my coffee a half-hour later. He rolled out of bed, yawnedand scratched his head vigorously. His hair was rumpled, but he lookedrested, and I envied him to beat hell.
"You mean it's up to me?" I asked.
"Sure. You just go on with your normal everyday existence and ignore me,like I'm nothing but a shadow." He was still stretching lazily.
"Well, for the first thing, I'm going to see that we get a cot in here.There isn't room in that bed for both of us."
Maxwell grinned as he buttoned his shirt. "D'I kick you out of bed?Sorry. Should have warned you."
"Do you eat breakfast?" I asked him.
"Hell, yes. Like a wolf."
"Well, let's go down and get you some breakfast while I figure out myagenda for today."
* * * * *
I wasn't sure what I wanted to do--start working on that SRI feature, Isupposed, so I could get it out of the way and either relax orconcentrate on this telenosis business, which I was supposed to beforgetting about. I had most of the dope I needed for thestory--atmosphere, first hand experience....
Everything, it occurred to me, but the essential facts.
For instance, I would need to know more about Zan Blekekehimself--simple biographical data that shouldn't take too long togather. A harder job would be finding out about "Dear Late Doctor." Sofar I didn't even know what his name was. And if none of the SRI memberswould talk about him....
As Maxwell and I sat at a breakfast room table, I made a mentalchecklist of the points I would have to work on. I was staring out thewindow at the flowers staging a color-riot in the garden, when suddenlyMaxwell said:
"Say, Earl, about how long does it take to find out a guy's brain waveband?"
"Huh? What do you mean?" I looked at him. He was shoveling pancakes intohis mouth like a fireman stoking a furnace.
He shrugged and swallowed. "You said there was no danger from telenosisuntil they found my wave band. Well, last night I had the damnedestnightmares, and I was just wondering--"
"Relax," I said. "Ever been telenized?"
"Not that I know of."
"Got nothin' to worry about, then. If you had been telenized, it's justpossible they could have gotten your band number from the TelenosisBureau. Which, by God, come to think of it, is where they probably gotmine. But without that, or an electroencaphalograph, it'd take weeks, atleast."
"But can't it influence a lot of people at once? I mean, like masshypnosis?"
"Sure be hell if it could," I said. "But I don't think it can. I don'tknow why not, but I definitely remember old Doc Reighardt saying it'dnever been done."
He seemed to feel better. He finished his breakfast in relative silence.I was able to map out a general procedure for gathering all of thenecessary SRI information.
First step was to get hold of Zan Blekeke again and have him tell me hislife history. I shuddered at the prospect, but it had to be done.
"We're going to East Emerson beach," I told John Maxwell.
On the way, aboard a third-level bus, I asked him, "SRI ever beeninvestigated by you people?"
"Damn if I know. Why?"
"Never mind. Save me a lot of trouble, maybe, if it had. Just athought."
We found the SRI cultists at their usual place on the beach. It was astretch on the far south end, a rough, gravelly portion quite a bitbeyond the army of regular bathers.
As we approached, threading our way through the maze of umbrellas,tablecloths and people, people, people in practically all stages ofnudity, I noticed that a makeshift rope fence enclosed the little groupof SRIs where they were sprawled out doing their relaxing exercises.That was something new--the fence, I mean.
I started to crawl through the ropes, and one of the nearby reclinersjumped to his feet, stood in front of me and made pushing motions withhis hands.
"I'm sorry, sirs, but this is a meeting of The Suns-Rays Incorporatedreligious group. You are requested not to enter."
Now, he knew better than to say a silly thing like that to me. His namewas Monte Bingham, and he knew damn well who I was, and I told him so."I'm practically an ex-officio member in good standing myself," I said."Wake up, you goof."
Monte Bingham turned slowly around and looked toward the big Martian,Zan Blekeke, who was sitting up with his spindly legs outstretched nearthe center of the enclosure.
Blekeke got to his feet and waddled toward us, waving Bingham aside. Hewas not smiling. He stood glaring at us.
"Whose?" he said with a swift, half-gesture toward Maxwell.
"Whose?" I repeated. "He's mine. I mean, he's my brother-in-law, JohnMaxwell, come to visit me from Sacramento. He's okay. What's going on? Ijust wanted to make an appointment
to talk with you."
Blekeke heaved his big round bare chest. "Trying still disciple in," hereplied.
"How's that? Discipline, you mean?"
"Yups. Laters out. Strangers out. No excepting. Can't."
"Yeah, but you know me, and John here--"
"Brother law oaks, but both laters. See hall hour halfish. Talk then.Treatment, yups?"
I said, "Well, I guess that'll be okay. Hour and a half, at the hall,huh?"
Blekeke said, "Yups," and turned away.
* * * * *
He took two steps and stopped. I saw his spine stiffen. His head turnedslowly toward the water's edge where two dogs