The Ganymede Takeover

happened to wish to conquer a planet.

“But why?” timidly asked one of the navigator creeches.

The medical creech shrugged. “Something came through the Great Common. When it reached Mar­shal Koli I was currently in telepathic contact with him; I saw it, the great darkness without end. Of course I broke contact immediately; it would have destroyed me as well.”

“Why did not Marshal Koli break contact?” a second navigator creech inquired. “He also might have saved himself that way.”

The medical creech propelled itself away from the porthole. “The ruling elite does not do that; in times of danger it merges into the polyencephalic mode. In this case, the more frightened they became the more they tried to lose themselves in unity—and thereby exposed themselves to whatever malignant force it was that came flowing through the Common to them.”

“It is a weakess we shall not have,” asserted a junior officer creech solemnly.

The medical creech smiled at the note of self­assertiveness in the younger creech’s voice; he would never have spoken in that tone while Marshal Koli lived. The young ones, the medical creech realized, will adjust and rebuild. But let us hope that they will not turn their thoughts to interplanetary conquest. That mistake has already been made once—and once is sufficient.

“Let us return home,” the medical creech said, and the others moved off to prepare the huge ship for the return voyage.

Now, thought the medical creech somberly, we are responsible for ourselves.

This odd and novel idea appealed to him, attracted him; yet at the same time it filled him with dread. Now that we have freedom, he thought, I hope it does not prove a burden too great for us.

XVII

Gus Swenesgard blinked stupidly at the sudden light.

For a moment his sense of relief was so great that he simply lay there, saying a clumsy prayer to his fundamentalist God, a prayer of thanks; then a wave of panic swept over him. Am I, he asked himself, still alone?

He lurched from the bed and staggered to the win­dow. Outside, in the evening darkness, he could see the dusty, familiar street, but nobody inhabited it. His terror increased by the second; hastily, he stum­bled out into the hotel corridor and shouted, “Any­body there?”

“I’m here, boss.” The voice of one of his faithful Toms; it-resounded from beyond a turn in the cor­ridor. Gus broke into a run in the direction of the sound. “You’re fat and mean,” the Tom said, when they stood facing each other, seeing each other, “but you’re better than nothing.” His voice cracked with emotion.

Gus said, “You’re lazy as an old dog and ugly as a toad. But I never saw a better sight than your face this minute.” Both men exploded into near-

hysterical laughter and other voices around them were laughing, too. One of the hotel rooms opened, then another; the occupants streamed shakily out, shouting greetings to one another.

In the center of the swirling mass of humanity, Gus shouted, “I’m gonna have all them doors taken off their hinges. This is gonna be the first hotel in the world with no doors!” They love me, Gus thought with awe. They really love me; see how they throw their arms around me. And that old lady just kissed me. It’s a miracle of love that’s happened. It’s God’s message of love to all mankind. “Hey,” Gus shouted above the hubbub, “how would you like for me to be king?”

One of the Toms shouted back, “You can be any­thing you damn well please, Mr. Gus. Just let me look at you!”

Other voices joined in. “Hooooray for King Gus! Long live King Gus! Gus the King!”

Gus broke away from the crowd and stumped puff- ingly down the hall to a vidphone. Shaking with excitement, coins sliding from his fingers and bounc­ing to the floor, he put through a call to the nearest TV network station. “This is Gus Swenesgard,” he declared. “I want to buy an hour of prime time on a worldwide satellite hookup for, say, tomorrow night.” He got hold of the station manager, repeated this.

“On whose authority?” the station manager said.

“I’m the acting head of the bale of Tennessee,” Gus said sharply.

“Can you pay for it?” The station manager quoted an approximate price.

Blinking, Gus said, “S-s-ure.” It would break him

financially—but it was worth it.

“You’ve made yourself a purchase,” the station manager said. ‘ ‘ We might as well put you on the air as anybody else; at least you’re human. Since the lights went on all hell’s breaking loose around here. You know what’s going on now? Our head newscaster is in front of the cameras taking off his clothes and shouting ‘I love you.’ In a minute I expect he’ll start doing something really crazy, like telling the truth.” “Then I’ve got the time slot?” Gus could hardly believe it.

“Sure. But payment has to be in advance of the telecast.”

“Worldwide?”

“You bet your sweet life.”

“Yippy!” Gus shouted.

“Hey,” the station manager said. “Say ‘yippy’ again. I love to hear a man sound so happy.” “Yippy!” shouted Gus into the phone.

“Why don’t you and the wife come down and have dinner with us before the telecast?” the station man­ager asked. “I sure would like my family to meet the acting head of the bale of Tennessee.”

“I don’t have any wife,” Gus said. “You see—” “Well, that’s okay. You can marry my eldest girl. I’m sure after what’s happened you’d appear pretty good to her no matter how you look.”

“I’ll take you up on the supper part, anyway,” Gus said, and, thanking the man, hung up. They love me, he thought again. Everyone in the world loves me.

The vidphone rang. Gus, being close to it, answered it.

“Gus Swenesgard?” inquired a voice. The screen remained blank. But sometimes this particular phone did that; he wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, this is Gus.” It seemed to him there was something familiar about the voice; he could not, however, place it. And in addition there was some­thing frightfully strange about it, too; the voice raised goosebumps on Gus’ flabby flesh.

“So you want to be king.” The unidentified voice held contempt; cold, pitiless contempt.

“Sure,” Gus answered, suddenly not quite so sure of himself. Here, he realized with a sinking feeling, is at least one person who doesn’t love me.

“I know you, Gus Swenesgard,” the voice de­clared. “I know you better than you know yourself. You can’t even rule your own gluttony; how do you expect to rule others when you can’t rule yourself?” “I’m no worse than the next—” Gus began defen­sively.

“Is that a reason to call yourself ‘king’? Just be­cause you’re no worse than the next person?” The voice had become hard and ruthless. “You’re a clown, Gus; aredneck, ranting, second-rate clown.” The voice rolled on relentlessly. “You hypocrite. Egomaniac. Overstuffed racist slob with a rear-end like a hog’s snout.”

Frightened, Gus said, “W-w-who do you think you are, anyhow?”

“Don’t you know me?”

“Hell no.” Nobody talked to him that way; at least nobody had for a long time.

“You were present at my birth. Don’t you re­member? In the great darkness, in the silence.” “What are you, some kind of nut?” His voice shook.

“You would like to be able to reduce me to the stature of a mere nut, wouldn’t you? I know how you think, Gus, how you divide humans into good men and bad men, the saved and the damned. And you, of course, are one of the saved.”