Illegal Aliens Read Online Free Page B

Beijing, but join it did.
    Incredibly and ironically, the problem child turned out to be Greece, as the computer operator assigned to monitor any maximum security messages that involved the safety of his nation, and perhaps the world, was locked in the supply closet sleeping off his lunchtime rendezvous with the entire secretarial pool and a bottle of ouzo .
    With the activation of the FCT, many politicians became seriously displeased and threw what could only politely be called tantrums. But despite their every effort, all of the vaunted power each of them had lied, cheated, stolen and (depending upon the country) murdered to get, simply flowed through their fingers like a bride's tears. But after a shot of brandy and a hurried reading of the FCT's original charter, most politicos accepted the inevitable and did what they could to assist. Most, but not all.
    Five minutes after pressing the button, a green light winked on his keyboard, and with the flick of a switch, Rajavur irrevocably transferred the military might of the world to General Nicholi.
    His VOX headphones on, controls live, voices began whispering to the Russian general about the launch status of NATO missiles, combat troop readiness and the present location of Navy and Air Force strike teams. Nicholi sub-vocalized into his throat mike, allocating 5 more NATO submarines to the New York harbor and scrambling an additional flight of F18 Raptor fighter/bombers. He already had enough atomic weapons pointed at Manhattan Island to blow it out of the history books, but he told the dreaded American CBW units to stay on the alert, and ordered his homeland to begin the careful assembly of their prototype Hellfire Bomb. In the solitude of his truncated room, Nicholi bitterly cursed the day he learned to play poker.
    “Let's hear the alien's message please, Mohad,” Prof. Rajavur said, laying aside his hotline to the White House. This was no time to chat with the President. He appreciated the offer of assistance, but Rajavur had infinitely greater resources at his command than any local politician.
    With a nod, the Hindu linguist pressed the Playback switch on his built-in video tape recorder.
    “. . . PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION.”
    “Dirt?” Bronson asked, putting a wealth of questions into the single word.
    “Semantically correct,” Dr. Malavade explained didactically. “Though hardly flattering I agree.”
    “WE ARE SCOUTS FROM THE GALACTIC LEAGUE,” the strange echoing voice continued. “HERE TO DETERMINE IF YOUR PLANET, DIRT, IS SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED TO JOIN THE COALITION OF YOUR NEIGHBORING STARS.”
    The rippling TV screen melted into a whirl of colors that became the picture of a blue skin humanoid wearing a dusky white uniform of classic military style. He (she? it?) had a formidable brow, pie plate eyes and two mouths, although only one was in use at present. Dr. Wu touched her throat mike, commenting briefly on the oddity and the possibility of copper sulfate life forms. Sir John made a notation on the military cut to its clothing, and requested detailed information on anything blue in nature; topaz stones, birds of paradise and the music of Blind Lemon Jefferson.
    “FROM THE CROWD THAT HEMS OUR SHIP,” The facial movements of the being in no way matched the words coming from the speakers. Dr. Malavade sub-vocalized into his throat mike about translation devices. “WE HAVE TELEPORTED ABOARD OUR SHIP SEVERAL REPRESENTATIVES OF YOUR RACE. THEY ARE UNHARMED, I REPEAT, THEY ARE UNHARMED, AND ARE WITH US SIMPLY TO HELP US ASCERTAIN YOUR ELIGIBILITY FOR MEMBERSHIP IN THE GALACTIC LEAGUE.”
    “They’re alive!” Sir John cried, his nightmares of alien invaders who eat our flesh, enslave our children and make the stock market collapse dispersing like a Highland mist. “Alive!”
    Rajavur reached for his direct line to Nicholi, but then relaxed, when he saw the reflected lights of the Russian's console blink from red to orange