They Came To Earth In Crates

"We can't let the people know, sir."

The Secretary to the Protector was adamant, but he didn't press the point. He knew that the argument was already won. The Protector, sat opposite him, didn't seem to be listening to a word his secretary said. His chair was turned three-quarters to the right, so that he looked at the wall rather than his employee, and his left hand drummed faintly on the crescent-shaped top of his desk.

"Sir?" the secretary prompted, quietly.

With a sigh the Protector nodded, his jowls shaking. The most powerful man on the planet looked old and haggard; his eyes were the eyes of someone who hadn't slept for perhaps two straight days. Only his secretary knew that the Protector had been awake for at least four, and was actually looking remarkably well. The secretary nodded back, a single, controlled tilt of the head.

"Two shipments have arrived today," the secretary said, his manner becoming businesslike. "Over three thousand, two hundred crates. That leaves just under nine thousand crates to arrive, uh-" (the secretary flicked through the contents of his pad, which bleeped in protest) "-in five days time. Four ships, including the Manticore."

The Protector's eyes flickered and he swivelled round towards the secretary. "The Manticore? Are you sure that's wise? The flagship of the fleet?"

The secretary scratched the scalp under his forelock. They had both worked together for long enough to know that meant he was feeling anxious. "It should be fine, sir. We've took steps—cosmetic steps—to make it look like a scow. And it will be flying in under full radar and IR cover, at night." He shrugged. "It was the biggest ship we had, and we needed it."

"Yes. Yes, you're right. Well. Distribution: what about distribution? It's all very well getting all the crates onto the surface, but how will we distribute them among the populace?"

Again the secretary consulted his notes. "We believe we can achieve at least 90% diaspora within... oh, within the week following arrival of all crates, Protector. And without anybody knowing. We can proceed faster than that but there's a greater risk that people will learn the truth about the crates."

The truth hung in the air between them, momentarily. His secretary's eyes followed his gaze as the Protector glanced out of the window. The secretary took a breath and continued.

"I have seconded the necessary departments and their ministers already, of course, under Protection Act 117. We can therefore use the ministries' normal delivery methods, and this should arouse the least suspicion."

"Who will be in charge of delivery?"

"Minister Findley has recommended a trusted aide of his, a Mr McLaghlin, previously Captain McLaghlin. Still is, I suppose. I will brief him fully on the task ahead."

The Protector nodded. "Word must not get out, Secretary."

"No, Protector."

"Imagine how bad it would be for morale. Nobody else must know. Ever."

"Yes, Protector."

The old man turned away. He began tapping his fingers on his desk again. His secretary wondered if he had been dismissed, and he was about to rise from his seat when the Protector said suddenly:

"We are doing what's right, aren't we, Secretary?"

The secretary paused. From the way his master had spoken, he couldn't be sure if the question was really directed at him, or at some tribunal or impeachment council many years in the future.

"Protector, we're doing everything we can."

"Do everything you can to keep this quiet, McLaghlin," the secretary told Minister Findley's aide. They had met up later that day in the vast storage bin set aside—in total secrecy—for the cargo arriving from the colonies. It was the interior of a hollowed-out mountain, created as an emergency bunker during the Last Great War. A few hours after each ship had come in, landing in a burst of fire and steam, wisps of cloud had begun to form near the ceiling of the bunker. The pilot of the second ship had sworn he had felt rain.

"How am I to distribute the crates, sir?" McLaghlin was a military man, with a clipped voice that chewed the end off each sentence.

"Normal channels. Completely normal channels. I have instructed the staff at the relevant departmental warehouses and you will be permitted to deliver crates to these locations-" (he handed McLaghlin a sheaf of documents) "-under these pretexts-" (another sheaf.) "Make sure you match them up, as the staff at each warehouse have obviously not been briefed on the true nature of your cargo."

McLaghlin looked round the vast, two-thirds empty space ahead of him. He couldn't tell if their voices had been echoing or not during the conversation. Whatever noise had been returned from the far-flung walls was too weak and too delayed.

"How many crates in total, sir?"

"Twelve thousand by the end of the week. We will provide flash transport capable of handling five hundred crates at a time. Leave the Pacific journeys till last, as they will take longest."

"Very good, sir."

"Anything else?" the secretary asked. McLaghlin paused, and the secretary found it refreshing that someone was, for once, thinking about the answer to a question before submitting it.

"No, sir," he eventually barked.

"This comes straight from the Protector, McLaghlin. Tell nobody. We cannot let this become common knowledge."

With the minister gone, McLaghlin relaxed. Although he had been told what was in those crates, it was only fair that he make sure for himself. This wasn't curiosity; years of service in the fleet squeezed the curiosity out of men like McLaghlin. This was simple contingency planning. Until he could believe that the contents of the crates were what he had been told they were, then he had no confidence in the plans that the secretary had made. Professionalism: that was all. A little maverick, but the secretary would surely understand.

He wandered over to an old supply cupboard, and rummaged around inside it for a suitable implement. By luck there was a claw hammer towards the bottom of a pile of brushes and cleaning materials. He grabbed this and carried it to the nearest wall of wood. There were a few crates standing singly, each around a metre and a half high and several metres long and wide. McLaghlin could see all sides apart from the base on the floor: they were blank, with no markings or lettering of any sort. Close up he thought the wood looked unusual, but couldn't say how: perhaps the trees had been grown in the colonies.

He slid the claw in between the lid and body of one of the crates and levered. Nothing. He pushed down harder, and still it did not budge. Finally, he leant on the hammer with all his weight and, with a sensation like a long splinter being eased out, the crate opened and a handful of long nails lost their grip on one half of the join that they bridged. McLaghlin pulled on the lid, grunting as it shifted upwards. There was now a big enough gap and he looked inside.

It was full of potatoes.

His eyes widened a little. Not sure what to think he checked another crate, which yielded a little more easily to the hammer. Inside were white flakes and husks, like packaging material filling the crate almost to its brim. Wheat, he thought, or maybe corn: he wasn't sure whether or not they were the same thing. He tried another crate, and that was full of barley.

Vegetables. Millions of tonnes, certainly once the rest of the cargo had arrived. McLaghlin had once had to eat hydroponically grown vegetables, and the food in the crates reminded him of those. They were a little too big, as if their growth had been rushed. Looking at the rest of the crates, McLaghlin couldn't begin to guess at the extent of the farms that had produced the contents of all these crates.

Using the same hammer he banged the crooked nails back into the crates, sealing them shut. Nobody must know, not even the guards on the gates of this facility. So as he approached those gates he rearranged the expression on his face, pokered it until it was as blank as the wooden boxes behind him.

The doors began to trundle apart. As the hot breeze blew in from outside he sniffed, and remembered again why it had come to this. Stepping outside he saw, from one end of the horizon to the other, scorched, dead fields. Not a single plant grew, nor a single insect buzzed. It was the lasting legacy of the Last Great War. McLaghlin looked around him, at the desolation and the dry heat, and silently agreed that the secretary's plan was a good one. Earth, after all, needed all the help it could get.