"General, can you tell us why?"
The group was white-faced, still. The flash-bulbs had stopped popping. The first impulse to bolt the General's office for the nearest bank of press telephones had somehow died even as it had arisen. Belief and disbelief mingled as one in the eyes of each.
"I'll try gentlemen," Taylor said wearily, leaning across the desk, his knuckles white against the smooth surface. "I could talk about our stressing of cultural advancement in this 21st century, rather than technological ... a trend that has always made us of the military fearful of the future—now at hand—but what's the use of rehashing problems of the past.... Plainly and simply, gentlemen, the Invader is superior to us in every phase of known warfare. Add to that the element of a surprise attack and you find us as we are at this moment—beaten, irreparably."
No one said anything. There was nothing to say.
General Taylor sank into his chair and stared at them, a grim hopelessness in his eyes.
Then the newsmen walked from the room. Slowly and silently.
Robert Manning, civilian Pentagon clerk, told himself that the Invaders might better kill everybody off and get it over with than to just regiment the hell out of everything. A man couldn't even stay home so his wife could take care of his cold for him.
He sneezed. If allowed to live it, there were perhaps forty years of life yet for him. Forty years, and they would be slave years. It was all too damned new and just hadn't got through to him yet. What in God's name was it going to be like....
There was a sickness in his stomach, and he knew it was not from his cold.