The Watchers

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The Watchers

                             THE WATCHERS

                             By ROGER DEE

      _It had taken him ten years to find them--to even convince
       himself that they existed. Now Manson was ready to_ kill!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                    Planet Stories September 1951.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


He left his gyro on the dark lawn and circled the villa, carefully
avoiding the wash of light from open windows. The blast gun lay snug
and cold in his hand, and his thought ran bleakly: _Here am I, Peter
Manson, pacifist, idealist, reformer, preacher in print of tolerance
and amity--about to kidnap a man whom I shall almost certainly kill
before morning._

Tomorrow the telecast would list his madness with other insanities:
sex murders, suicides, political drumbeatings for the coming holocaust
of the inevitable Fourth War....

_War._

"They're going too far," he said, half aloud. "Their routine meddlings
were bad enough, but another war now might mean the end of everything."

He found the alien who called himself Leonard Havlik in a bright,
book-lined study, packing a miscellany of papers into a brief case
that bore his name in gold lettering. A secretary was helping, a slim
girl with crisp, copper-colored hair and clear green eyes.

Manson waited, tense with unaccustomed strain. Somewhere a bird trilled
sleepily, and the night-wind, fragrant with the smell of trampled
clover, blew cool against his damp face.

Irrelevantly, the scene inside reminded him of his own quiet study
where he had labored for ten years over the scant gleanings of
his search. In that time he had written four books, fighting with
a reformer's apostolic zeal to open the eyes of men to their own
possibilities, and he had failed.

He had not awakened his kind, but he had found the Watchers. The
failure was not his fault. It was Theirs....

The girl left the room. Manson straightened at his window, bringing up
the blast gun.

"Come out, Havlik," he ordered. "Quickly, or I'll blow you to dust
where you stand--_Watcher_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

His quarry looked up, startled--a small, dark man with a thin, tired
face and sparse gray hair, a perfect replica of the million ordinary
businessmen his camouflage of humanity aped.

Manson snicked off the safety catch of his weapon, and Havlik came
through the window quickly, without protest. Manson prodded him into
the gyro and manacled his wrists together.

"We Earthmen have a time-tested proverb," Manson said, "to the effect
that you can't fool all the people all the time. I've spent ten years
searching for you, Havlik--and here I am."

He set the autopilot for his cabin on Green River, holding his blast
gun warily, and sent the gyro slanting upward into the night. Havlik
smiled faintly, dark eyes gleaming in the light of the instrument panel.

"Laugh while you can," Manson said grimly. "I've learned something of
you Watchers already. I'll know more by morning."

"Force was unnecessary," Havlik said unexpectedly. "I would have given
you information willingly, since our mission here is ended. The Kha
Niish, who are our masters, have ordered us to leave Earth. Tonight."

Manson stared, the alien's assurance fanning his anger.

"You're lying--you Watchers have mingled with us for centuries, using
our own ignorance to set us against each other. You've kept us in
perpetual confusion, deafening us with our own bickering while you
tightened your hold on us. Now you're fomenting a Fourth War that may
wipe us out completely, to save yourselves the trouble of liquidating
us directly. You'd never go now, with success almost in your hands."

"Perhaps you mistake our intention," Havlik said. "How do you know
you're right?"

"Because men of themselves would not do the brutal, idiotic things
that fill the telecasts every day," Manson said. "We are a gregarious
people, craving affection--why should we lie and steal and murder
each other by the millions? Man is a rational animal, yet he does not
behave in a rational manner. By simple induction, the basic cause of
his social idiocy stems from outside himself. Someone, or Something, is
setting us against each other. I suspected as much ten years ago, and
tonight I have proved it."

Havlik shrugged. "You've wasted your time. We leave Earth tonight."

Manson laughed shortly. "_You're_ not going anywhere, my friend. I need
you for information."

"What else would you know? Our reason for quitting Earth?"

"You're not leaving at all," Manson said, nettled. "You may have
planned a routine jump to your base on Pluto, but you're not giving up
a juicy plum like Earth. Not after all these years!"

       *       *       *       *       *

He peered through the gyro's side glass searching for the white peak of
Green Mountain to check his position. The skyglow of Denver shimmered
in the east, but the peak was lost in darkness.

"You misunderstand our motive," the alien said. "But you're quite right
about our base on Pluto. Induction again?"

"On a different level, yes," Manson said. "Pluto is a solar anomaly--a
small, heavy planet where there should be nothing but a larger and
lighter world. Pluto was never born to Sol--it's an alien planet,
brought in from Outside by you Watchers."

A red light winked on the control panel, and the gyro swerved
fractionally. A fiery streak of crimson rocket exhaust flared ahead and
vanished, explaining the deviation.

"Seattle-Miami express," Manson muttered. Then the unnatural angle of
the exhaust-trail registered, troubling him. "But it shouldn't cross my
course--and it should be going up, not _down_!"

"Your crusade is based on a false premise," Havlik said. "We came to
Earth less than fifty years ago, not to destroy humanity but to guide
it. The Kha Niish sent us as missionaries, to sow the seed of Their
benign culture among men as we have sowed it among a thousand other
infant races born into Their galaxy."

The gyro tilted, spiraling down for a landing. A farmhouse, lighted
windows cheerful against the dark countryside, rose to meet it. Beside
the house, standing on end like a giant cartridge case, Manson saw a
sleek, shining bulk--a ship.

He raised incredulous eyes to meet the alien's dark stare.
Comprehension stunned him.

"You fiend," he breathed. "You've tricked me somehow--you've played
cat-and-mouse with me from the first!"

He remembered the gun in his hand and swung it up.

"Let your weapon drop," Havlik said. "You set the autopilot at my
direction. This is our evacuation point."

The gun slid from Manson's fingers. He tried to retrieve it from the
floor and cried out, startled, when his body refused to obey.

The alien removed his manacles. "You will be free again as soon as we
lift."

"Lies," Manson grated. He fought to break the stasis that held him,
veins knotting in his forehead with the effort. "I might have known!"

The gyro landed gently, a hundred yards from the cylinder.

       *       *       *       *       *

Figures swarmed about the great ship, pouring up a wide ramp in orderly
embarkation. The girl Manson had seen at the villa came running toward
the gyro, copper hair blowing in the night-wind.

"You were almost late," she called to Havlik. "We're ready to--" She
caught sight of the Earthman and broke off.

In the dark depth of her eyes Manson saw understanding and a great
pity, and for the first time it came to him that Havlik had not lied.
Aliens they might be, but not destroyers--in this girl burned the same
ideals, the same transcendent zeal that drove him. She was as human,
basically, as he.

_The same will to raise up the helpless is in us both_, he thought.
_The compulsion to carry the saving light of reason to those in
darkness...._

"Wait," he begged. "Your master wouldn't have ordered you away if Earth
needed you--and if men can work out their own salvation, then they
don't need me, either! Take me with you out there--let me help you, let
me see the Outside galaxy of the Kha Niish for myself!"

He spoke to Havlik, but his eyes clung to the girl as to a magnet. She
met his gaze fully, the compassion in her own eyes deeper than grief.

Havlik shook his head. "Your sanity would not bear the presence of the
Kha Niish, nor of the other races Outside. You are drawn to this girl
as to another of your own kind--but do you suppose that the Kha Niish
would shape her in Their image? She is like the rest of us, an android
creature, refashioned by the Masters to suit the environment of each
new world we visit."

The last of the swarming figures vanished into the great cylinder. A
muted gong-sound thrummed through the night. A voice called, urgently.

"The Kha Niish did not order us away because men are solving their own
problems," the alien said. "We leave you to destroy yourselves, as you
will, because man is one of the rare failures of the Galactic Urge. You
are a race of incorrigibles."

Later Manson sat woodenly in his gyro, waiting for volition to return,
the scent of scorched earth and ozone and trampled clover strong in his
nostrils.

_We Earthmen have another inerrant old saw_, he thought bitterly. _An
excruciatingly funny one dealing with silk purses and sows' ears...._

For a long time he sat quietly, straining his eyes to follow the last
faint rocket-streak that arced upward against the stars. Then the
stasis that held him fell away, and he reached for the blast gun that
lay under his feet.

***