But they’d given him an assignment. Something about a plumber’s fancy dress ball. Now, obviously an assignment like that concerned their plans, their organization. Obviously.
He grabbed for the phone.
“Desk? This is Mr. Smith in 504. Yes, Mr. Smith again. Listen, how do I find out where the plumbers are in New York?”
“If the plumbing in your room is out of order, sir,” the smooth, patient voice explained, “the hotel will send up a—”
“No, no, no! I don’t want a plumber, I want plumbers, all of them! The New York plumbers, how do I find them?”
He distinctly heard lips being licked at the other end as this question was digested and then, aside, a whispered comment, “Yeah, it’s 504, again. We got a real beauty in that room this time. I don’t envy the night man tonight, let me tell you!” Loudly and clearly, if just a shade less smoothly, the voice replied: “You will find a classified telephone directory on the desk near your bed, sir. You can look up plumbers under P. Most of the plumbers in Manhattan are listed there. For plumbers in Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, and Staten Island, I would suggest—”
“I don’t want plumbers in Brooklyn or the Bronx! I don’t even want plumbers in—” Alfred Smith drew a deep breath. He had to get a grip on himself! The fate of the entire planet, of the entire human race, depended on his keeping his head. He forced his mind backward, inch by inch, off the plateau of hysteria it had mounted. He waited until his voice was calm.
“This is the problem,” he began again, slowly and carefully. “There is a fancy dress ball of the plumbers of the New York area. It’s being held somewhere in the city tonight, and I’m supposed to be there. Unfortunately, I’ve lost my invitation and it contained the address. Now, how do you think I could go about finding where the ball is going to be?” He congratulated himself on the swiftness of his thinking. This was really being a counterspy!
Pause. “I could make some inquiries, sir, through the usual channels, and call you back “And aside: “Now he says he’s a plumber and he wants to go to a fancy dress ball. Can you beat that? I tell you in this business…” And to him: “Would that be satisfactory, sir?”
“Fine,” Alfred Smith told him enthusiastically. “That would be fine.”
He hung up. Well, he was getting the hang of this espionage business. Nothing like a sales background for practice in quick thinking and quick talking.
He didn’t have to report to the office until tomorrow. That gave him this afternoon and this evening to save the human race.
Who would have thought when he was offered a job in New York with the BlakSeme Hosiery Company (“Men Notice BlakSemes—They’re so Shockingly Stocking!”) what tremendous stakes he’d be playing for the very day of his arrival? Of course, BlakSeme knew what kind of man he was, they knew he was executive timber or they’d never have hired him right out from under PuzzleKnit, their biggest competitor. He’d made quite a name for himself, Alfred Smith was modestly willing to admit, in the Illinois territory. Highest sales increases for three years running, steadiest repeat orders for five. But to PuzzleKnit Nylons (“PuzzleKnit Attracts Their Attention and Keeps Them Guessing”), he had just been a top-notch salesman: it had taken BlakSeme, with their upper-bracket, Madison-Avenue orientation, to see him as a possible district sales manager.
BlakSeme alone had seen he was big-league material. But even they had not guessed how big a league it was in which he was destined to play.
The desk clerk called back. “I find, sir, that there is a fancy dress ball of the boss plumbers and steamfitters of the metropolitan New York area. It’s at Menshevik Hall on Tenth Avenue at eight o’clock tonight. The theme of the ball is the ancien regime in France, and only people in pre-French-Revolution costumes will be admitted. Would you like the name of a place near the hotel where you can rent the right costume for the occasion?”
“Yes,” Alfred Smith babbled. “Yes, yes, yes!” Things were beginning to click! He was on the trail of the aliens’ organization!
He went out immediately and hurriedly selected a Due de Richelieu outfit. Since some small alterations were necessary, he had time to get dinner before the costume would be delivered to his hotel. He ate carefully and nutritiously; this was going to be a big night. His reading matter throughout the meal was a booklet he’d picked up in the outfitting place, a booklet giving the descriptions and background of all the costumes available for this period—sixteenth-to eighteenth-century France. Any fact might be the vital clue…
Back in his room, he tore off his clothes and pulled on the rented apparel. He was a little disappointed at the result. He did not quite look like a Gray Eminence. More like a young Protestant in Cardinal’s clothing. But then he found the scrap of gray beard in the box that belonged with the costume and fitted it on. It made all the difference.
Talk about your disguises! Here his body was supposed to be a disguise, a disguise which was the uniform of the Aliens’ Special Agents Division, of their terrestrial spy service. And now he was disguising that supposed disguise with a real one—just as by being a supposed spy he was laying a trap for all the real secret operatives.
Alfred Smith—one lone man against the aliens! “So that,” he whispered reverently, “government of humans, by humans, and for humans shall not perish from the Earth.”
The telephone. This time it was Jones.
“Just got word from Robinson, Smith. That special mission of mine. It looks like tonight’s the night.”
“Tonight, eh?” Alfred Smith felt the lace tighten around his throat.
“Yes, they’re going to try to contact tonight. We still don’t know just where—just that it’s in New York City, I’m to be on reserve: I’ll rush around to whoever finds the contact. You know, reinforce, lend a helping hand, be a staunch ally, give an assist to, help out in a pinch, stand back to back with, buddy mine, pards till hell freezes over. You’ll be at the plumbers’ ball, won’t you? Where is it?”
Alfred shook his head violently to clear it of the fog of clichés thrown out by Jones. “Menshevik Hall. Tenth Avenue. What do I do if I—if I discover the contact?”
“You phmpff, guy, phmpff like mad. And I’ll come a-running. Forget about telephones if you discover the contact. Also forget about special-delivery mail, passenger pigeon, pony-express rider, wireless telegraphy, and couriers from His Majesty. Discovering the contact comes under the heading of ‘emergency’ under Operating Procedure Regulations XXXIII-XLIX inclusive. So phmpff your foolish head off.”
“Right! Only thing, Jones—” there was a click at the other end as Jones hung up.
Tonight, Alfred Smith thought grimly, staring into the mirror. Tonight’s the night!
For what?
Menshevik Hall was a gray two-story building in the draftiest section of Tenth Avenue. The lower floor was a saloon through whose greasy windows a neon sign proclaimed:
The second floor was brightly lit. Music oozed out of its windows. There was a penciled sign on a doorway to one side of the bar: