Potential Enemy

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  POTENTIAL ENEMY

  by Mack Reynolds

  [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Orbit volume 1number 2, 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  [Sidenote: CAESAR HAD THE SAME PROBLEM AND NEVER SOLVED IT. LORDHELP US IF IT JUST CAN'T BE DONE!

  _Alexander the Great had not dreamed of India, nor even Egypt, when heembarked upon his invasion of the Persian Empire. It was not a matter ofbeing like the farmer: "I ain't selfish, all I want is the land thatjines mine." It was simply that after regaining the Greek cities of AsiaMinor from Darius, he could not stop. He could not afford to havepowerful neighbors that might threaten his domains tomorrow. So he tookEgypt, and the Eastern Satrapies, and then had to continue to India.There he learned of the power of Cathay, but an army mutiny forestalledhim and he had to return to Babylon. He died there while making plans toattack Arabia, Carthage, Rome. You see, given the military outlook, hecould not afford powerful neighbors on his borders; they might becomeenemies some day._

  _Alexander had not been the first to be faced with this problem, nor washe the last. So it was later with Rome, and later with Napoleon, andlater still with Adolf the Aryan, and still later--_]

  * * * * *

  It isn't travel that is broadening, stimulating, or educational. Not thetraveling itself. Visiting new cities, new countries, new continents, oreven new planets, _yes_. But the travel itself, _no_. Be it by themethods of the Twentieth Century--automobile, bus, train, oraircraft--or be it by spaceship, travel is nothing more than boring.

  Oh, it's interesting enough for the first few hours, say. You look outthe window of your car, bus, train, or airliner, or over the side ofyour ship, and it's very stimulating. But after that first period itbecomes boring, monotonous, sameness to the point of redundance.

  And so it is in space.

  Markham Gray, free lance journalist for more years than he would admitto, was en route from the Neptune satellite Triton to his home planet,Earth, mistress of the Solar System. He was seasoned enough as a spacetraveler to steel himself against the monotony with cards and books,with chess problems and wire tapes, and even with an attempt to do anarticle on the distant earthbase from which he was returning for the_Spacetraveler Digest_.

  When all these failed, he sometimes spent a half hour or so staring atthe vision screen which took up a considerable area of one wall of thelounge.

  Unless you had a vivid imagination of the type which had remained withMarkham Gray down through the years, a few minutes at a time would havebeen enough. With rare exception, the view on the screen seemed almostlike a still; a velvety blackness with pin-points of brilliant light,unmoving, unchanging.

  But even Markham Gray, with his ability to dream and to discern thatwhich is beyond, found himself twisting with ennui after thirty minutesof staring at endless space. He wished that there was a larger number ofpassengers aboard. The half-dozen businessmen and their women andchildren had left him cold and he was doing his best to avoid them. Now,if there had only been one good chess player--

  Co-pilot Bormann was passing through the lounge. He nodded to thedistinguished elderly passenger, flicked his eyes quickly,professionally, over the vision screen and was about to continue on hisway.

  Gray called idly, "Hans, I thought the space patrols very seldom got outhere."

  "Practically never, sir," the other told him politely, hesitatingmomentarily. Part of the job was to be constantly amiable, constantlywatchful of the passengers out here in deep space--they came down withspace cafard at the drop of a hat. Markham Gray reminded Bormann ofpictures of Benjamin Franklin he'd seen in history books, and ordinarilyhe didn't mind spending a little time now and then talking things overwith him. But right now he was hoping the old duffer wasn't going tokeep him from the game going on forward with Captain Post and thesteward.

  "Just noticed one on the screen," the elderly journalist told himeasily.

  The co-pilot smiled courteously. "You must have seen a meteorite, sir.There aren't any--"

  Markham Gray flushed. "I'm not as complete a space neophyte as yourcondescending air would indicate, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, I'llstack my space-months against yours any day."

  Bormann said soothingly, "It's not that, sir. You've just made amistake. If a ship was within reasonable distance, the alarms would besounding off right now. But that's not all, either. We have a completerecord of any traffic within a considerable distance, and I assure youthat--"

  Markham Gray pointed a finger at the lower left hand corner of thescreen. "Then what is that, Lieutenant?" he asked sarcastically.

  The smile was still on the co-pilot's face as he turned and followed thedirection of the other's finger. The smile faded. "I'll be a _makron_!"he blurted. Spinning on his heel, he hurried forward to the bridge,muttering as he went.

  The older man snorted with satisfaction. Actually, he shouldn't havebeen so snappy with the young man; he hated to admit he was growingcranky with age. He took up his half completed manuscript again. Hereally should finish this article, though, space knew, he hadn't enoughmaterial for more than a few paragraphs. Triton was a barren satelliteif he'd ever seen one--and he had.

  He had almost forgotten the matter ten minutes later when the ship'spublic address system blurted loudly.

  BATTLE STATIONS! BATTLE STATIONS! ALL CREW MEMBERS TO EMERGENCYSTATIONS. ALL PASSENGERS IMMEDIATELY TO THEIR QUARTERS. BATTLE STATIONS!

  Battle Stations?

  Markham Gray was vaguely familiar with the fact that every Solar Systemspacecraft was theoretically a warcraft in emergency, but it wasutterly fantastic that--

  He heaved himself to his feet, grunting with the effort, and,disregarding the repeated command that passengers proceed to theirquarters, made his way forward to the bridge, ignoring the hystericalconfusion in passengers and crew members hurrying up and down the ship'spassageways.

  It was immediately obvious, there at the craft's heart, that this was nofarce, at least not a deliberate one. Captain Roger Post, youthfulofficer in command of the _Neuve Los Angeles_, Lieutenant Hans Bormannand the two crew members on watch were white-faced and shaken,momentarily confused in a situation which they had never expected toface. The two officers stood before the bridge vision screen watching,wide-eyed, that sector of space containing the other vessel. They hadenlarged it a hundred-fold.

  At the elderly journalist's entrance, the skipper had shot a quick,irritated glance over his shoulder and had begun to snap something; hecut it off. Instead, he said, "When did you first sight the alien ship,Mr. Gray?"

  "_Alien?_"

  "Yes, alien. When did you first sight it? It is obviously following usin order to locate our home planet." There was extreme tension in thecaptain's voice.

  Markham Gray felt cold fingers trace their way up his back. "Why, why, Imust have noticed it several hours ago, Captain. But ... an _alien_!...I...." He peered at the enlarged craft on the screen. "Are you sure,Captain? It seems remarkably like our own. I would say--"

  The captain had spun back around to stare at the screen again, as thoughto reassure himself of what he had already seen.

  "There are no other ships in the vicinity," he grated, almost as thoughto himself. "Besides that, as far as I know, and I should know, thereare no Earth craft that look exactly like that. There are strikingsimilarities, I'll admit, to our St. Louis class scouts, but those jetson the prow--there's nothing like them either in existence orprojected."

  His voice rose in an attempt to achieve decisiveness, "LieutenantB
ormann, prepare to attack."

  Suddenly, the telviz blared.

  _Calling the Neuve Los Angeles. Calling the Neuve Los Angeles. Beunafraid. We are not hostile._

  There was quiet on the bridge of the earth ship. Screaming quiet. It wasseemingly hours before they had recovered even to the point of staringat one another.

  Hans Bormann gasped finally, unbelievingly, "How could they possiblyknow the name of our ship? How could they possibly know the Amer-Englishlanguage?"

  The captain's face was white and frozen. He said, so quietly that theycould hardly make it out, "That's not all. Our alarms still haven't beentouched off, and our estimators aren't functioning; we don't know howlarge they are nor how far away. It's unheard of--.Somehow they'vecompletely disrupted our instruments."

  *