The Sinister Invasion

Birrel rebelled at the idea of becoming a cosmic counter-spy. But he was the one Earthman whom a quirk of nature had fitted for the job....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy June 1957 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

It was strange, how easy it was to step right out of your own life, right out of the familiar Earth into cosmic mystery! As easy, Birrel was to think later, as opening a door....

As Birrel walked into his 71st Street apartment, snapping on the light and pocketing his keys, he suddenly stopped, tense with surprise.

A man he had never seen before stood facing him. A commonplace-looking man with a gray hat, gray suit, and a grayish, young-middle-aged face. His voice was mild as he said,

"Ross Birrel?"

"That's right," said Birrel. Then anger swept away his astonishment. "Who are you and how the hell did you get in here?"

"We'll discuss that later," said the gray man. "Right now, I want you to come with me. Official business."

"What kind of official business?"

"We'll discuss that later too."

Birrel started forward, his temper dangerously high. Then he stopped. The gray man's hand was in his coat pocket, and it was gripping something in that pocket. He said,

"Please don't be difficult, Mr. Birrel."

Birrel said, "If you're an official of some sort, let's see your credentials."

"I'm afraid," said the other, "I don't have any."

"I thought so." Birrel began to breathe hard. "Listen, you've made a mistake. I'm not a rich man, or a rival gangster, or anybody you want. I'm an electrical engineer, a bachelor, and I'm stone broke."

"We know that," murmured the gray man. "Now will you come along?"

Birrel suddenly decided that the man was crazy. New York was full of nuts these days, people flipping their lids and doing daffy things. This was one of them--and there was only one thing to do.

"All right, but you'll regret this," he said. He started to turn his back on the gray man. "When you find out you're wrong--"

Birrel, turning, whirled with sudden speed, his arm snaking out to catch the gray man's neck with the edge of his hand, the old trick they'd taught him in the OSS in war-time.

It didn't work.

The gray man ducked and chopped expertly with his left hand. A numbing pain hit Birrel's extended arm.

For the first time, the gray man smiled. "Sorry. But I was in the OSS too, you see."

Birrel, holding his aching arm, stared. This wasn't a nut after all. But what--?

"Look, Mr. Birrel. I have no sinister designs against you, in any way. We merely have a proposition to put to you. You can accept or refuse it. But unfortunately, I have to do this secretly. That's why I couldn't phone or write or approach you in public."

Birrel thought rapidly. Not a nut, no. But what kind of official business would have to be done this secretly? He didn't like it, not at all.

"Shall we go?"

Birrel looked at the hand in the coat pocket. He went.

He came out into the cool dark wetness of 71st Street, the summer shower over and the red and white neon signs toward Broadway reflected cheerily on wet asphalt. A sedan, with a man at its wheel, was waiting.

He heard the mild voice close behind his ear. "Get right in, Mr. Birrel."

The car swept them up the West Side Highway, with the electric glow of Manhattan behind them. Ahead, the strung-out lights of George Washington Bridge arched the black gulf of the river.

Birrel sat in the back seat, with the gray man keeping well away from him at the other end of the seat. He could see nothing of the driver but a thick neck under a crusher hat.

They crossed the Hudson and went on westward, skirting cities and running quietly and fast through a region of small factories and junk-heaps and power-plants.

Birrel felt a mounting panic. What the devil had he got mixed up in? He tried to think why anyone would want to grab him like this.

He couldn't think of anything. Since the war he'd completed his education, taken his engineering degree, landed a job in a Long Island electric company, and--that was all. He didn't know any technical secrets, he wasn't doing any top-secret work, he was an utterly undistinguished thirty-year-old engineer and nothing more.

Then why?

"Listen," he said, "I know there's a mistake--"

"No mistake," said the gray man. He added, "We're nearly there."

"There" was a high wire fence with a locked gate and a red sign, INDUSTRIAL CYANOGEN COMPANY--DANGER, KEEP OUT. A man came out of a little wooden building inside the gate, and unlocked and opened it. The car went on through.

It stopped, after a moment, in front of a big, dark old-fashioned brick factory building with a forlorn, out-of-date look about it. The only light was a dingy bulb over the door in front.

"This is it, Birrel. Come along."