Once more the image in the television screen changed.
“This is one of their ships,” said the President’s voice.
A spindle-shaped craft of some highly polished metal appeared on the television screen. Beside it, the silhouette of a man had shrunk until it was approximately the size of a human being standing next to a double trailer truck.
“This is a scout ship, the smallest of their craft—holding a single family, usually consisting of three or four adults and perhaps as many young.”
The image on the television set shrank almost to a dot, and beside it appeared a large circular craft nearly filling the screen.
“And this is the largest of their ships,” said the President. “Inside, it should have much the appearance and population of a small city—up to several thousand individuals, adult and young, and at least one large manufacturing or tool-making unit required by the Horde for maintenance and warfare, as well as food-processing and storage units.”
The voice of the Chief Executive lifted, on a note that signaled he was approaching the end of what he had to say.
“Our visitors have told us,” he said, “that defense of the galaxy is a common duty. For our world to join in that defense is therefore a duty. What they require from us, however, is a contribution of a highly specialized nature.” His voice hesitated and then went on more strongly. “They tell us that the weapons with which our galaxy’s defensive force will meet the Horde are beyond the understanding of our science here on Earth. They tell us, however, that they are part physical, part nonphysical in nature. The number of fighting individuals we can contribute, therefore, to our galaxy’s defense is limited by our relatively primitive state of awareness as far as these nonphysical forces are concerned. We can send only one man. This one individual—this one man who is best suited to be our representative by natural talent and abilities—has already been selected by our visitors. He will shortly be taken over by them, adjusted so as to make the best possible use of these talents, and then turned loose for a brief period to move about our world and absorb an identification with the rest of us. This process of absorbing an identification has been compared by our visitors to the process of charging a car battery, to exposing its plates to a steady input of electrical current. Once he has been so ‘charged,’ all of us on this world who have managed to contribute to the ‘charging’ will continue to have some sort of awareness in the backs of our minds of what he is going through up on the battle line, to which he will then be transported. And from this linkage he will draw the personal nonphysical strength with which he will operate his particular weapon when the encounter with the Horde occurs.”
The President’s face once more appeared on the television screen. He paused, and standing in the bar, Miles felt the impact of the older man’s eyes upon him—as, evidently, did everyone else in the room.
“That is all for now,” said the President slowly. “As soon as we have more information, people of America and people of our world, it will be released to you. Meanwhile, in this trying and strange time into which we have suddenly been plunged by events, let me ask you all to go on with your lives in their ordinary fashion and show patience. As we approach what lies in store for us, what lies in store for us will become more plain to us all. God bless you, and good afternoon.”
His face vanished from the screen. There was a moment of grayness; then the face of an announcer flickered on.
“The voice you have just heard,” the announcer said smoothly, “was that of the President of the United States…”
There was a slowly beginning, gradually increasing combination of sighs and rustles of movement within the bar as the people there came to life and action again. Miles turned to Marie and saw her standing white-faced, still staring at the television screen.
“Come on,” said Miles. “Let’s get out of here.”
He had to take her by the arm before he could break the trance that held her. But when he touched her, she started and seemed to come awake. She turned obediently and followed him out once more into the red-lighted street.
In the street she leaned against him, as if the strength had gone out of her. He put his arm around her to steady her and looked anxiously about him. Two blocks down the street, a lone cab was coming toward them. Miles whistled, and the cab came on, angling into the curb to stop before them.
Miles bent down to open the rear door. As he did, he became conscious of the fact that besides the driver, there was a man in a blue suit in the front seat and another man sitting in the back seat. He checked, with the door half-open.
“It’s all right,” said the man in the back seat. “You’re Miles Vander, aren’t you? And this will be Miss Bourtel.”
He reached into his inside suitcoat pocket and brought out a leather case, which he flipped open. Miles saw a card in a plastic case, with the man’s picture and some lines of fine type underneath.
“Treasury Department,” said the man. “You’re to come with us, Mr. Vander. We’ll drop Miss Bourtel off on the way.”
Miles stared at him.
“Please get in,” said the man in the front seat beside the driver, and the evenness of his tone made the words more a command than an invitation. “We were told we’d find you here. And there’s no time to lose.”
Within the circle of Miles’ arm, Marie leaned even more heavily against him. Worry for her tightened Miles’ chest.
“All right,” he said abruptly. He helped Marie into the back seat of the taxi next to the man sitting there and then got in himself, closing the door behind him.
“We’d better go—” he was beginning, when the man in the front seat cut him short.
“That’s all right. We’ve got our instructions on that, too,” he said. He sat half turned in the front seat, with one elbow over the back to the seat so that he looked directly into Miles’ face. “Look at her.”
Alarmed, Miles looked sharply around again at Marie. She sat with her head against him, her eyes closed, unmoving, breathing deeply and slowly.
“Don’t worry,” said the man in the front seat. “She’s only asleep. The aliens arranged it—the two from the ship—to get her through the business of seeing you picked up by us. We’re to deliver her to the university hospital, where they’ll take care of her for an hour or two, until she wakes. When she does wake up, she won’t be alarmed about what’s happened to you anymore.”
Miles stared at him.
“What is all this?” Miles burst out.
“I don’t blame you for not suspecting,” the man in the front seat answered. The taxi was already pulling away from the curb and heading off down the street in the direction of the distant university. “We’ll be taking you immediately to the airport, where a military airplane will fly you to Washington. You’re the man that the two aliens from the spaceship—our two visitors from the center of the galaxy—have picked to be this world’s representative, defending the galaxy against the Silver Horde, and everything we’ve done so far, like our finding you and Miss Bourtel’s falling asleep, has been arranged by them.”