And here's the final bit of the Fen arriving in Philly. Comments, brickbats, etc. --Mal
Philadelphia Municipal Airfield, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
November 25, 1940
The air was full of anticipation. Ever since the night of the 18th, when the fog had come down and left a changed world in its wake, the people of the United States were confused, frightened but above all curious about the brave new world they'd landed in. The wireless broadcasts from outer space made the people all the more curious; rumors of strange encounters with stranger things were breaking out all over. Finally, President Smith had decided to meet these rumors head on. He'd invited representatives from the mysterious Fenspace Convention to Philadelphia, for a friendly chat.
He'd done it on national wireless, too, so there would be no secrecy, and the public buzzed with excitement: the Mysterons were coming!
Flora Blackford adjusted her coat and waited, alongside the President and a gaggle of General Staff officers, for the Fen delegation to arrive.
The President and his staff had had a briefing on the Fen from the other American – and it was so hard not to try and capitalize 'other' – ambassador. It was just one surreal moment out of a week that couldn't have been imagined by the wildest pulp authors.
“The Fen are different,” he said, this incredibly green young man who'd apparently been some junior State Department functionary before the world changed underneath them. “They're not green monsters from Mars – or at least most of them aren't,” he added, which didn't inspire confidence in President Smith's group. “We've had our differences over the years, but the one thing we've found is that they
do want to help. It's just that their definition of 'help' can be a bit... odd.”
“I see,” Smith said, not really seeing but willing to go along with the assessment. In the perilous situation the United States had found itself, even odd help was better than none. “What can you tell us about these diplomats they're sending?”
“They're both faction leaders. Mr. Marsden is – was – is one of our leading industrialists, runs a major mining operation among other things. He's a stalwart American patriot, though his personal politics might cause some friction.” Flora groaned inwardly at this.
Even in another universe, the capitalists managed to rise to the top of the heap. “General Fnord,” the diplomat went on, “commands a smaller faction, more openly militarized than Marsden's. Aside from that, he's also got more overt and covert power among the Fen than Marsden, so expect him to lead the discussion.”
“I understand,” said Smith. “Thank you for letting us know this, son.”
“My pleasure, Mr. President.”
~***~
After that perfunctory briefing, Flora had arranged for some more research on her own, courtesy of her son Joshua's collection of pulp magazines and novels. All of them had lurid covers, usually involving odd-looking monsters threatening half-naked women, and were filled with square jawed men being ridiculously noble and heroic. It was, by Flora's estimation, all very juvenile stuff.
“Still,” she murmured, “these people seem to have made it work as a civilization.”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Blackford, did you say something?” asked the Navy man she'd ended up standing next to.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she replied. “Just thinking out loud, is all. I was thinking about our guests.”
The Navy man grinned. “There's a lot of that going around these days. I'm looking forward to grilling some of these Fen people on how they stay alive in space.”
Flora's eyebrows rose. “Are you speaking professionally, Mr...?”
The man had the grace to look abashed. “Heinlein, ma'am, Commander Bob Heinlein. And I suppose I am speaking professionally, though not as a naval officer.” He shrugged. “I used to write the stuff, you see.”
“Oh,” said Flora, enlightened.
“Yes, ma'am.” Heinlein paused. “It's an honor to speak to you, by the way. I was an admirer of your husband, worked for his campaign back in '32.”
“Really? I didn't think a General Staff officer would have approved of Hosea.”
“I was a green Lieutenant out on an invalid discharge back then. They only reactivated me when some admiral noticed a magazine with my name on it and put two and two together. Guess they're hoping my 'experience' making stuff up for the pulps translates into understanding these Mysteron people.”
“You shouldn't call them that,” Flora chided. Heinlein shrugged.
“They're the ones who started that flabble,” he said, and Flora couldn't disagree with that. Heinlein glanced at his watch. “They seem to be running fashionably late,” he noted. “They said they'd be here right about now and I don't see-”
Whatever Heinlein was about to say was cut off, as a terrible CRACK tore through the sky. Everybody in the waiting welcoming party, members of the press and bystanders alike all reflexively flinched. One distinguished general threw himself onto the dry grass.
“What was
that!?” cried a reporter. “Are they bombing us?”
The echoes of the crack died away, replaced by a rumbling sound, like an avalanche. Whatever it was, the sound was a distant cry from the droning sound of a propeller.
“It has to be nearby,” someone said.
“There!” someone else said, and there it was.
Coming high out of the west was an aeroplane the likes of which none of the people in Philadelphia had ever seen. A broad, flat triangle painted in garish colors swept down across the plain. Instead of propellers, the craft sported two large pods embedded in the wings, each topped with a cap that glowed a fierce blue.
“
Shema yisrael, adonai eloheinu adonai ehad,” Flora whispered, all she could say in the face of something so utterly alien.
“Amazing,” Heinlein muttered. “I wonder how they do it?” The man's commanding officer however wasn't nearly so calm.
“Good Lord,” the admiral said, eyes wide as saucers. “That monster is as wide as the
Remembrance is long!”
The gigantic aircraft swept down over the American delegation, close enough that they could read the ship's name ('GCU LAIKA') and see the device on the wings (a red and white flower, standing out against the spashes of green, blue and gold) before it gained altitude and moved on towards the city.
“Sonofabitch!” One of the generals attending the arrival snarled. “They're moving off to attack the city!”
“Steady, general,” the president warned.
“But sir!”
“Look, damn it! It's not attacking, it's turning!”
And so it was. The ship made a long, slow, majestic turn, like a runner doing a victory lap, or a new ocean liner making a show cruise around the harbor. All around the city, people stopped and looked up in amazement and a little fear. They'd all heard the Mysteron transmission, and despite the official denials they all wondered what that meant. Now it was clear; the Mysterons weren't only real, they were
here.
Speaking for herself, her constituents and her country, Flora Blackford only hoped they came in peace.
The ship –
Laika – approached the airfield, slowing to not much faster than a brisk walking pace. She swept over the runway, turning towards the place where the welcoming party stood.
Laika inched over until she came to a complete stop not a hundred feet away from the awed bystanders. Then, with deliberate slowness, she dropped to the ground, landing legs extended. When the legs touched earth, the rumbling noise stopped, the bright blue glow coming from the engine pods dimming until the bystanders could see what looked like giant fan blades twirling inside globes of blue glass.
~***~
“All stop, engines parked. Welcome to Bizarro-USA, circa 1940.”
“Thank you, Major, that was excellent flying. Diplomatic party meet at the main hatch in five, and everybody remember where we've parked.”
~***~
The reception party watched the ship’s hacth open, and a long gangway extend down to the ground. With the ship’s engines idle, silence reigned on the field. Despite assurances from other nations, nobody knew what the Fen would look like. Were they still human? Alien monsters? Some sort of robot?
Flora Blackford, in the course of her ‘research’ into the matter, had conjured up two possibilites – either the Fen would be square-jawed, bronzed heroes like the ones from Joshua’s pulps, or they’d be green, bald and blulging eyes, with four arms and carrying rayguns, again like Joshua’s pulps. As the Fen party emerged from the ship, she was struck by how far off the mark her speculations were. The two leading the small group out of
Laika were downright average specimens of humanity.
The first man was tall and broad-shouldered, with an aristocratic face framed by close-cropped dark brown hair. He walked with a confident stride, eyes flicking back and forth at the assembled group warily, like he expected a gunman or a wild animal to jump out of the crowd at any second. The other was shorter and more average in build, his bearded, weatherbeaten face less hard-edged than his companion. The two women accompanying them, however, fit the exotic image Flora had constructed in her mind. Behind the taller man walked a small, pale-skinned woman with blue hair, and behind the shorter a tall Indian woman glided forward, a calculating look in her dark eyes.
The odd little party stopped directly in front of the president. The shorter man snapped off a salute. “Mr. President,” he said, grey eyes twinkling behind half-moon glasses. “General Malaclypse Fnord, Soviet Air Force. We're your diplomatic party. May I introduce Mr. Christopher Marsden,” he gestured to the taller man, “chief executive of Greenwood, and our aide de camps, Captain Weatheral,” a gesture to the Indian, and then to the blue-haired woman: “and Ms. Ayanami.”
There was a moment – perhaps a little more awkward than it should've been – while the two delegations sized each other up. Then somebody coughed, and President Smith jolted into action. “General, Mr. Marsden, welcome to the United States.” The president paused. “Forgive us, but your arrival was a little overwhelming.”
“It was? Oh
dear.” Flora Blackford was more than a little puzzled. Fnord's demeanor was unlike any general – or any military man – she'd ever met. He seemed more like an absent-minded schoolteacher than somebody responsible for the sort of power
Laika projected. “I really must apologize, Mr. President. The idea was to
impress you, not overwhelm.”
“Oh, believe me General, we were very impressed.” Smith's voice was jolly, but everybody in earshot could tell the bonhomie was forced at best.
“Ah, yes? Well, good, good.” Fnord muttered. “Again, my apologies. We didn't mean to frighten anybody.”
Flora couldn't resist the question. “So what would you have done had you meant to frighten us?” she asked.
Fnord peered at her, the absent-mindedness vanishing like fog on a sunny day. “Ah, Madame Blackford,” he said with a sharp-edged smile. “You should see what we sent to Richmond.”
Even though the day was fairly warm for November in Pennsylvania, and for all that she was wearing a heavy coat, Flora shivered.
Mr. Fnord
interdimensional man of mystery
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