The airport officials sighed in audible relief when he finally came to a halt at the far end of the runway and cut his engines. Even as the bomber’s belly hatch swung open, a bulky army van quickly backed up to the plane with its rear doors open. Under cover of the dark night, and a cordon of M.P.’s, the aliens were swung out of the plane and into the truck in specially-built slings.
“Take it easy, knucklehead!” Cakna winced as he was bumped against the truck by an overanxious soldier.
“Relax, Cakna,” Druit stretched his tentacles in relief after his confinement in the plane, “they don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“It seems to me they don’t understand much of anything!” Cakna observed sourly. “Did you see the way that dim wit flew us in here? I could fly an engine crate better than that!” “I’d venture to say that machine worship plays a large part in their religious make-up,” Drul said. “They obviously believe that the machine will protect them no matter what they do. As a result, they show a marked disregard for their own safety whenever they operate a machine.”
“It’s beyond me how these characters ever developed any kind of culture!” Cakna said as he rubbed at his bruise. “I’m no psychologist, but for my money they’re all screwballs!”
The doors of the van were slammed shut and the truck started off with a squeal of tires. So quickly had the whole operation been performed that no one outside of those present were even aware that anything of importance had occurred. Less than ten minutes after the bomber had landed, the van was bouncing off over the field—giving the three aliens a few more reasons to find fault with the crudities of the civilization—behind its motorcycle escort.
The van threaded its way through the back streets of New York with its escort, in order to avoid the public gaze as much as possible. After an hour’s travel it drove up an underground ramp in the U.N. Center at 49th Street, and pulled up to an unloading dock deep in the heart of the structure. The van doors opened and a squad of heavily armed soldiers stalked out, with rifles at port arms, to form an armed corridor down which the three aliens were wheeled in custom-built carts to the elevators. They were whisked upwards for several seconds, and then they were rolled out into a vast chamber. There were seats, vacant at the moment, built against the walls in the manner of a hospital observation hall for students. In the center of the room, like six medicine balls, sat the two “American” teams.
“There’s the skipper!” Cakna shouted; his waving tentacles caused his military escort to point their rifles nervously at his middle.
The reunion of the nine aliens left the Earthmen openmouthed and staring. Their staccato chatter and entwining of tentacles suggested mutual suicide rather than greeting; but the soldiers had been warned to leave them alone as much as possible—unless they made an aggressive move towards one of the interviewing scientists.
“Jumping Jeleval! I never expected to see you boys again!” The captain whipped his tentacles around the heads of Drul and Druit in his joy.