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Horde."
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
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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
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