THE SINISTER INVASION
By Alexander Blade
Birrel rebelled at the idea of becoming a
cosmic counter-spy. But he was the one Earthman
whom a quirk of nature had fitted for the job....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
June 1957
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was strange, how easy it was to step right out of your own life,right out of the familiar Earth into cosmic mystery! As easy, Birrelwas to think later, as opening a door....
As Birrel walked into his 71st Street apartment, snapping on the lightand pocketing his keys, he suddenly stopped, tense with surprise.
A man he had never seen before stood facing him. A commonplace-lookingman with a gray hat, gray suit, and a grayish, young-middle-aged face.His voice was mild as he said,
"Ross Birrel?"
"That's right," said Birrel. Then anger swept away his astonishment."Who are you and how the hell did you get in here?"
"We'll discuss that later," said the gray man. "Right now, I want youto come with me. Official business."
"What kind of official business?"
"We'll discuss that later too."
Birrel started forward, his temper dangerously high. Then he stopped.The gray man's hand was in his coat pocket, and it was grippingsomething in that pocket. He said,
"Please don't be difficult, Mr. Birrel."
Birrel said, "If you're an official of some sort, let's see yourcredentials."
"I'm afraid," said the other, "I don't have any."
"I thought so." Birrel began to breathe hard. "Listen, you've made amistake. I'm not a rich man, or a rival gangster, or anybody you want.I'm an electrical engineer, a bachelor, and I'm stone broke."
"We know that," murmured the gray man. "Now will you come along?"
Birrel suddenly decided that the man was crazy. New York was full ofnuts these days, people flipping their lids and doing daffy things.This was one of them—and there was only one thing to do.
"All right, but you'll regret this," he said. He started to turn hisback on the gray man. "When you find out you're wrong—"
Birrel, turning, whirled with sudden speed, his arm snaking out tocatch the gray man's neck with the edge of his hand, the old trickthey'd taught him in the OSS in war-time.
It didn't work.
The gray man ducked and chopped expertly with his left hand. A numbingpain hit Birrel's extended arm.
For the first time, the gray man smiled. "Sorry. But I was in the OSStoo, you see."
Birrel, holding his aching arm, stared. This wasn't a nut after all.But what—?
"Look, Mr. Birrel. I have no sinister designs against you, in anyway. We merely have a proposition to put to you. You can accept orrefuse it. But unfortunately, I have to do this secretly. That's why Icouldn't phone or write or approach you in public."
Birrel thought rapidly. Not a nut, no. But what kind of officialbusiness would have to be done this secretly? He didn't like it, notat all.
"Shall we go?"
Birrel looked at the hand in the coat pocket. He went.
He came out into the cool dark wetness of 71st Street, the summershower over and the red and white neon signs toward Broadway reflectedcheerily on wet asphalt. A sedan, with a man at its wheel, was waiting.
He heard the mild voice close behind his ear. "Get right in, Mr.Birrel."
The car swept them up the West Side Highway, with the elec