MO-SANSHON!

By Bryce Walton

Only Professor Ward knew they were on Earth,
could almost hear them rustling behind their
humanoid faces. Then Red came to help him, and
of course he had to trust Red. But—could he?

[Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


His gaunt figure slumped wearily in the only chair in the otherwisebare cube, while the telaudio pronounced its immutable sentence.

The world psychometric council finds you. Doctor Jonathan Ward, aparanoic with advanced delusions of persecution and of grandeur.Your belief in a super-insect menace threatening humanoid culture wefind unsupported by logical evidence. You will be subjected to thereconditioning and readjustment clinics as authorized in Title C,Section 890, Article 72, Paragraph 18, Lines 72-86, Revised SolarStatutes, 2166. Section C-890-72, Article 18-1-W, Solar StatutoryPsychometry.

As the dry and precise voice faded from the six-by-six screen, longsuppressed panic hit Ward like a sudden sickness. He ran to the smoothpanel of the door.

An irrational reflex! Both door and single exit window could beactivated only from the outside. He was two hundred floors up, isolatedin a Verdict Cube in Washington’s Federal Building. AdministrativeGuards would be here soon to take him away. And when they released himfrom the clinics he wouldn’t be John Ward any more. He would be someoneelse; it wouldn’t matter who, because by then the Mo-Sanshon wouldhave accomplished their purpose. The solar humanoid culture would havebecome only a passing incident in geological history together with thegiant ferns, the saurians, and now—super insects! God, no wonderthey labeled him psycho! No one believed. It was too ridiculous. It hadbeen trite thematic material for emotionalizing fiction for so long—

But the Martian subterranean ant-like culture, the Mo-Sanshon, weredirectly responsible for his failure! Somehow, he didn’t know evententatively, they had infiltrated. They either controlled humanoids inhigh, influential positions by telepathy, or could, in some ingeniousphysiogenic way, assume human form. He knew that Vasco and Greever onthe Psychometric Council had been prejudiced by some influence otherthan reason.

He ran to the translucent window. He pummeled his aching brain, whilethe polychromatic light harmonics corruscated ironically through thetransparent plastic walls. His fevered eyes looked out on a black seaof velvet night and millions of splotches of cold phosphorescence. Darkair-taxis glided past on traffic beams—glided unknowingly past theimprisoned entomologist who alone out of the billions on Earth and Marshad probed the fantastic, aged secrets of the Mo-Sanshon.

He pressed his temples desperately, felt the pounding of his heart. Ifhe’d only been able to get physical evidence of their infiltration.If they could duplicate human form, then why hadn’t any of them beencaptured, or have left some trace of their alien derivation?

He sagged against the wall as the photo-electric banks of the doorfunctioned oilily, the rippling light harmonies dying to a monotonegrey. Three uniformed Guards stood a moment, looking at Ward curiouslywhile the panel closed. They were precise and mechanistic. The largerone, with an abnormally red face, said in a level, toneless voice,“Well, Doctor Ward. Are you ready?”

His vision blurred with tears as he stumbled toward them. When hestepped outside that door everything that signified Jonathan Wardwould be altered. He would become a new, reconditioned personality,remembering nothin

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