Beesley, a large, thickset man in a long, black overcoat and a large hat, was an extremist. His political manner was of the old school—the Churchillian school which still touched many people who wanted their politicians to be 'strong'. His tone was ponderous. His words, spoken slowly and relatively clearly, were portentous.
Unlike the others, he did not speak generally about the Patriot cause, for he had come to make a fresh statement.
As he began to speak the wind dropped and his words came through with a sudden clarity—over the crowd in the square, the crowds in the streets, down as far as Westminster, along to Buckingham Palace, as far as Piccadilly Circus in the other direction.
'Aliens among us,' he said, his head lowered and thrust towards the crowd. 'There are aliens among us. We do not know where they come from. We do not know how they landed. We do not know how many there are. But we do know one thing, my friends, people of England—they are among us!'
Ryan, standing uncomfortably in the middle of the crowd in the square grimaced sceptically at his friend Masterson who stood beside him. Ryan couldn't believe in a group of aliens contriving to land on Earth without anyone's knowledge. Not when the skies were scanned for invaders from special observation posts built all over the country. But Masterson was listening seriously and intently to Beesley.
Ryan turned his attention back to the platform.
'We cannot tell who they are, yet they are among us.' Beesley's voice droned on. "They look like us, sound like us—in every respect they are human—but they are not human. They are nonhuman—they are anti-human.' He paused, lowered his voice.
'How, you say, do we know about the aliens? How have we found out about the existence of this pollution, of these creatures who move about our society, like cancer cells in a healthy body? We know, by the evidence of our own eyes. We know the aliens exist because of who they are, what happens when they are about.
'Otherwise how can we explain the existence of chaos, bloodlust, law-breaking, riot, revolution in our midst? How can we explain the deaths of the little children battered to death by the fanatics of Yorkshire? The waves of rioting and looting all over the West Country? The satanic practices of religious maniacs in the Fens? How can we explain the hatred and the suspicion, the murder rate—now three times what it was five years ago, a full ten times what it was in 1990? How can we explain the fact that we have so few children when a few years ago the birth rate had doubled? Disaster is upon us! Who is stirring up and fomenting all this disorder, bloodshed and ruin. Who? Who?'
Ryan, glancing into the faces of the people about him, could almost believe they were listening seriously. Were they? Or was the presence of the troops and the Patriot Guards preventing them from catcalling or just walking away from this nonsense?
He looked at the faces of the police around the platform. They were staring up at Beesley—brute-faced men listening to him with close attention. Ryan, scarcely able to believe it, realised that Beesley's stories of the hidden invaders was being taken seriously by the majority of the vast crowd. As Beesley went on speaking, describing the hidden marauders, makers of chaos in their midst, the crowd began to murmur in agreement.
'Their bases are somewhere,' Beesley went on. 'We must find them, fellow patriots. We must eliminate them, like wasp nests...'
And there came from the crowd a great hissed susurrus 'Yesssss.'
'We must find the polluters and wipe them out forever. Whether they come from space or are the agents of another Power, we do not know as yet. We must discover where they originate!'
And the crowd like a cold wind through the ruins, answered 'Yessssss.'
He's lost them, thought Ryan sceptically, if he doesn't give them something a bit more concrete than that. He's got to tell them how to pick out these menacing figures they have to destroy.
'Who are they? How do we find them?' asked Beesley. 'How?
How? How indeed?' His tone became divinely reasonable. 'You all know, in your heart of hearts, who they are. They are the men— and women, too, make no mistake, they are women as well—who are different. You know them. You can tell them at a glance. They look different. Their eyes are different. They express doubt where you and I know certainty. They are the men who associate with strangers and people of doubtful character, the men and women who throw suspicion on what we are fighting for. They are the sceptics, the heretics, the mockers. When you meet them they make you doubt everything, even yourself. They laugh a lot, and smile too often. They attempt, by jesting, to throw a poor light on our ideals. They are the people who hang back when plans are suggested for purifying our land. They defend the objects of our patriotic anger. They hang back from duty. Many are drunkards, licentious scoffers. You know these people, friends. You know them—these men who have been sent here to undermine a righteous society.
You have always known them. Now is the time to pluck them out and deal with them as they deserve.'
And, before he had finished speaking, the crowd was in uproar.
There were shouts and screams.
Ryan poked Masterson, who was staring incredulously at the platform, in the ribs. 'Let's get out,' he said. 'There's going to be trouble.'
'Only for the aliens,' said James Henry at his other elbow. 'Come on, Ryan. Let's sniff 'em out and snuff 'em out.'
Ryan looked at Henry in astonishment. Henry's green eyes were ablaze. 'For crying out loud, Henry...'
He turned to his brother John. John looked back vaguely and suddenly, under the gaze of his elder brother, seemed to pull himself together. 'He's right,' said John. 'We'd better think of getting home. This is real mass hysteria. Jesus Christ.'
Henry's mouth hardened. 'I'm staying.'
'Look——' Ryan was jolted by the crowd. Snow fell down his neck.'—Henry! You can't possibly...'
'Do what you like, Ryan. We've heard the call to deal with these aliens—let's deal with them.'
'They wouldn't be likely to come here tonight would they?'
Ryan shouted. Then he stopped, realising that he was beginning to answer in Henry's terms. That was the first step towards being convinced. 'Good God, Henry—this is too classic for words.
We're rational men.'
'Agreed. Which makes our duty even clearer!'
The crowd was pushing the four men backwards and forwards.
The men had to shout to be heard over the roar of the rabble.
'James—come home and talk it over. This isn't the place...'
Ryan insisted, standing his ground with difficulty. From somewhere came the sound of gunfire. Then the gunfire stopped. Ryan found he was shouting into relative silence. 'You won't take that "aliens" nonsense seriously when you've got a drink inside you back at our flat!'
A man put his head over Henry's shoulder. His red face was flushed. 'What was that, friend?' he said to Ryan.
'I wasn't talking to you.'
'Oh no? I heard what you said. That's of interest to everyone here. You're one of them, if you ask me.'
'I didn't.' Ryan looked contemptuously at the sweating face.
'But we're all entitled to our own opinions. If you think it's true, I won't argue with you.'
'Shut up,' Masterson cried, tugging at Ryan's sleeve. 'Shut up and come home.'
'Bloody alien!' the red-faced man shouted. 'A bloody nest of them!'
Instantly, it seemed to Ryan, the crowd was on them. He came rapidly to a decision, keeping his head even in this situation.
'Calm down all of you,' he said in his most commanding voice.
'My point is that we might make mistakes in this situation. The aliens have to be found. But we need to work systematically to find them. Use a scientific approach. Don't you see—the aliens themselves could be stirring things up for us—making us turn on each other.'