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Invaders From Earth
 About the Book
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Preview
Ted Kennedy had a premonition the night before. It came, as so many premonitions do, in the form of a dream. Guns blazed, innocent people died, fire spread over the land. Looming thermonuclear mushrooms hung in the skies. He stirred fitfully, sighed, nearly awoke, and sank back into sleep. But when morning came he felt pale and weary; he ended the insistent buzz of the alarm with an impatient wrist-snap and dangled his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. The sound of splashing water told him that his wife was already awake and in the shower.
He had never awakened easily. Still groggy, he shambled across the bedroom to the cedar chest, groped for his robe, and headed for the kitchen. He punched buttons on the autocook, setting up breakfast. One of these mornings, he thought wryly, he´d be so sleepy he´d order steak sandwiches on toast instead of the usual bacon.
Marge was out of the shower and drying herself with all her awesome early-morning vigor when he returned to the bedroom to dress.
"Breakfast up?" she asked.
Kennedy nodded and fumbled in the closet for his best suit, the dark green one with red lace trim. He would need to look good today; whatever the conference on Floor Nine was, it was bound to be important, and it wasn´t every day a third-level public relations man got summoned to Floor Nine.
"You must have had a bad dream last night," Marge said suddenly. "I can tell. You´re still brooding over it."
"I know. Did I wake you up?"
She smiled, the bright sudden smile that so astonished him at 5 A.M. They had always been different that way- he the late riser who was still fresh long past midnight; she buoyant and lively from the earliest morning hours till the middle of the evening. "You didn´t wake me up, no. But I can see the dream´s still with you. Tell me about it-and hurry up. You don´t want to miss the car pool."
"I dreamed we were at war," he said.
"War? With whom?"
He hesitated. "I don´t know. I mean, I don´t remember any of the motivation. But it was a terrible war . . . and I have the nagging feeling we started it."
"How could there possibly be a war? Everyone´s at peace, darling! It´s been that way for years. There aren´t going to be any more wars on Earth, Ted."
"Maybe not on Earth," he said darkly.
He tried to laugh it off, and by the time he had finished breakfast some of the irrational fear-tide had begun to recede. They ate quietly. Kennedy was never much of a breakfast-table conversationalist. It was nearly 6 A.M. by the time they finished and Marge had dumped the dishes into the washer; the sun was rising now over the low Connecticut hills. He finished dressing, tugging at his collar to keep his braided throat-cord from throttling him, and gave his epaulets a light dusting of powdered gold. Marge remained in her gown; she worked at home, designing house furnishings and draperies.
At 6:18 sharp he was on the porch of his home, and at 6:20 the shiny yellow ´44 Chevrolet-Cadillac drew up outside, Alf Haugen at the wheel. Haugen, a stocky, meatyfaced man with bright sharp eyes, worked at the desk behind Kennedy´s in the Steward and Dinoli office, and this was his week to drive the car-pool auto. Of the six of them, Haugen had by far the best car, and he enjoyed flaunting it.
Kennedy half-trotted down the walk to Haugen´s car. He glanced back and waved at Marge, noting with some annoyance that she had gone out on the porch wearing only her filmy morning gown. Some of the men in the car were bachelors, and, unlike Haugen, Kennedy didn´t believe in flaunting his treasures openly. Marge was a handsome woman, but he felt no urge to demonstrate that
fact to Lloyd Presslie or Dave Spalding, or to any of them for that matter.
He slid into the back of the car; Presslie and Mike Cameron moved over to make room for him. Haugen nudged the start-button, the turboelectrics thrummed, and the car headed smoothly off toward the city.
Apparently, Spalding had been in the middle of some joke when they stopped to pick up Kennedy. Now he reached the punch-line and the five of them, everyone in the car but Kennedy, laughed.
Kennedy disliked Spalding. The slim young fourth-level man lived in the apartment development three miles further along the road; he was unmarried, deeply intense about most subjects, and almost never let anyone know what he might actually be thinking. It was not a trait that endeared him to people, which was probably why he was still only a fourth-level man after three years at Steward and Dinoli. It was no secret that old Dinoli preferred outgoing types, married, in his higher levels.
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