Harry Truman vs the Aliens by Emerson LaSalle Page A

feet from the
President since the trip began. Imagine a wrestler who had
swallowed a linebacker and you’d get a clear picture of Hardmann. A
bright blond crew cut. Square jaw carved from granite, and alert
blue eyes that saw everything. Hardmann had seen action at
Guadalcanal where it was rumored he’d taken out a Japanese tank
with a bottle opener. He’d gone to Iowa State on the G.I. Bill
after the war and had earned his way onto the secret service for
his ability to take it as well as dish it out.
    The other secret service men were of
the same cut.
    Truman’s plane touched down at
Edward’s Air Force Base, and a company of Rangers was there to meet
him in jeeps and halftracks. Truman, Musgrave, and Hardmann piled
into an armored Cadillac, and the column proceeded to the outer
reaches of the base, and approached a lonely hanger with the number
51 in faded lettering on the wide door. A squad of men with
Thompsons guarded the entrance. The Cadillac parked in front, and
the Rangers set up a perimeter as Truman and Musgrave entered the
hanger followed by the Secret Service agents.
    The President scanned the nearly empty
hanger, their footfalls echoing as they followed Musgrave to the
center of the hanger where a shrunken bald man in coke bottle
glasses and a lab coat waited for them. He stood next to a narrow
podium with a lever and a few bottoms. The President looked down
and discovered he was on a thirty by thirty foot square
platform.
    “I’m Albert Kitner,” said the man in
the lab coat. “They sent me up for you.”
    “I’m Musgrave. May I present the
President of the United States Harry Truman.”
    Kitner bowed slightly. “An honor, Mr.
President.”
    Truman waved him away. “Forget all
that, Professor. Where do we go from here?”
    “If I can have everyone scoot in a
little closer onto the platform please,” Kitner told them. “Thank
you. Now hold still if you please.”
    Kitner pressed a button on the podium,
and Truman felt the floor vibrate under his feet. Kitner pulled the
lever slowly, and the platform with everyone on it sank into the
floor. They passed several levels, some with offices, others in
workshops where men with tools worked on odd exotic machinery. In
every case, heads turned to get a glimpse of the U.S. President
before they vanished below to the next level.
    Truman counted nine levels in all
before Kitner brought the lift to a halt. He stepped off, gestured
for everyone to follow.
    The underground corridor was gleaming
steel, lights built into the ceiling overhead.
    “This is all a bit Flash Gordon for my
tastes,” Truman said.
    “This facility represents the highest
concentration of technology since the Manhattan Project,” Musgrave
said.
    Next to the President, Hardmann’s eyes
darted constantly from side to side, always evaluating, assessing,
on the lookout for anything that might be a threat.
    “Will you knock it off,” Truman said.
“You’re giving me the willies.”
    “Sorry, Mr. President.” But he didn’t
stop.
    The hall ended at a large metal door.
Kitner pushed through to the enormous workshop beyond. It was twice
as big as the hanger above, dozens of technicians scurrying back
and forth, various machines doing God-knows-what. A prototype
mainframe computer took up all the space along the far
wall.
    But the real showpiece, the item which
drew the President’s attention, sat in the middle of the huge room,
a humped up silver saucer twice as big as a Sherman tank, the
surface of the spaceship smooth and gleaming. A hatch with narrow,
tinted windows was open at a ninety degree angle, revealing a
cockpit underneath with a configuration of thee seats. Pilot,
co-pilot and navigator? The President shook his head. Best to leave
the guessing games to the scientists.
    It would be a mistake to think aliens
thought the same way humans.
    A disheveled scientist in a greasy
stained lab coat broke from the pack upon seeing the newcomers and
bee-lined for the President. Truman