Collected Short Fiction, page 536
“It was a successful trip?”
An expression of doubt crept into Laurance’s bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. “Successful? Well, I suppose. The drive worked beautifully. We covered ninety-eight hundred light-years in the snap of a finger. But—”
Daviot whooped jubilantly. Leeson slapped Jesperson on the back. McKenzie said crisply, “But what?”
Laurance looked around. “It’s—it’s kind of classified, Technarch McKenzie. Maybe we’d better wait till later—”
“You can speak in the presence of these men.”
“All right. We had a smooth trip. We ducked in and out of hyperspace and came out just where we wanted to be, and we got back home the same way. Only we met some aliens out there.”
“You met aliens?”
“Not really met. We saw them, and got the deuce away from there before they saw us. They were building a city, Excellency. It looked like—like they were colonizing that planet, just like we would do.”
CHAPTER 2
FOUR hours later the entire Archonate convened. The thirteen men who ruled Earth and her network of dependent worlds foregathered in the Long Room, on the hundred-and-ninth story of the Center building.
They had come from every part of the world, summoned from their individual duties by McKenzie’s call, arraying themselves in their traditional places along the rectangular table. In the center sat the Geoarch, old Ronholm, nominal first among the thirteen equals who comprised the Archonate. To Ronholm’s right sat the Technarch McKenzie. At the Geoarch’s left was Wissiner, Archon of Communications. At Wissiner’s side of the table were Nelson, Archon of Education; Heimrich, Archon of Agriculture; Vornik, Archon of Health; Lestrade, Archon of Security; Dawson, Archon of Finance. To the right of McKenzie sat Klaus, Archon of Defense; Chang, Archon of the Colonies; Santelli, Archon of Transportation; Minek, Archon of Housing; Croy, Archon of Power.
As the Archon of technology, science, research, McKenzie was the most important man in the room. But he observed protocol scrupulously. He permitted Geoarch Ronholm the first word.
“We have been called together, the old man quavered, “to hear of matters the Technarch considers of prime importance to the future welfare of our worlds. I relinquish the chair to the Archon of Technological Development.”
McKenzie spoke without rising. “Members of the Archonate, four hours ago a spaceship landed in Australia after completing a journey of nearly ten thousand light-years in less than a month—and of that month, better than three weeks were spent in exploration. The actual interstellar trip was virtually instantaneous. That would normally be occasion for great rejoicing; for now, the stars lie within the reach of us all, within our lifetimes, but there is a complicating factor. I call now on Dr. John Laurance, Commander of the XV-ft1 which returned a short while ago, to explain the nature of this factor to us all.”
McKenzie gestured, and Laurance rose, a thin, tall figure, in the center of the room.
Laurance came forward until he was within twenty feet of the Archons. He was a man of forty, with close-cropped hair just turning a grizzled gray, and a lean, bony face which just now reflected the many tensions of his recent trip.
He said, “Excellencies, I was chosen by you to command the first manned Daviot-Leeson interstellar ship. I left Earth on the First of Fivemonth past, with my crew of four. Travelling at a constant velocity of interplanetary rate, we reached the orbit of Pluto, the assigned safety zone, and converted to the Daviot-Leeson drive there.
“We left the ‘normal’ universe at a distance of some forty astronomical units from the Earth and followed our precalculated course for seventeen hours, until reaching our intended position. Making use of the Daviot-Leeson drive once again, we returned to the ‘normal’ universe and found that we had indeed reached our goal, the star NGCR 185143 at a mean distance of approximately ninety-eight hundred light-years from Earth.
“This star is a G-type main sequence sun with eleven planets. Following our instructions, we made landing on the fourth of these planets, which was Earthtype to six places and thus suitable for colonization. To our great surprise, we found that a city was in the process of construction on this planet.”
McKenzie said, “Tell us about the aliens you saw.”
“Yes, Excellency. I dispatched my crewmen Hernandez and Clive to reconnoiter. They observed the aliens for several hours.”
“What were these aliens like?” asked the Archon of Defense, Klaus, in his thin, testy voice.
“Humanoid, Excellencies. We have photographs of them which would have been available for display had we—had we been given sufficient notice to prepare them. They stand about two meters in height, are two-legged, oxygen-breathing, and in many respects are much like ourselves. Skin pigmentation is green, though some observed aliens were blue. They appear to have a more complex joint structure than we do; their arms are double-elbowed, permitting motion in all directions, and they seem to have seven or perhaps eight fingers. Opposable thumbs, of course. They wear clothing. In brief, they seem to be an intelligent and energetic race of about the same stage of evolutionary development as ourselves.”
The Archon of Security asked quietly, “Are you certain you were not observed?”
“They paid no outward attention to our ship. At all times my men remained hidden while observing them.”
“We’re not alone, then,” said Ronholm, half to himself. “Other beings out there, building their colonies too—”
“Yes,” interrupted McKenzie crisply. “Building their colonies too. I submit that we’ve stumbled over the greatest threat to Earth in our entire history.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Nelson, the Archon of Education. “Just because another species ten thousand light-years away is settling a few worlds, Technarch, you can’t really draw dire conclusions.”
“I can, and I am. Today the Terran sphere of worlds and the alien sphere are thousands of light-years apart. But we’re expanding constantly, even forgetting the new spacedrive for the moment, and so are they. It’s a collision course. Not a collision between spaceships, or planets, or even suns. It’s an inevitable collision between two stellar empires, theirs and ours.”
“Have you a proposal?” the Geoarch asked.
“I have,” McKenzie said. “We’ll have to contact these people at once. Not a hundred years from now, not next year, but next week. We’ll have to show them that we’re in the universe too—and that some kind of accord is going to have to be reached—before the collision comes!”
“How do you know,” asked Security Archon Lestrade, “that these—aliens—have any hostile intent at all?”
“Intent of hostility is irrelevant. They exist; we exist. They colonize their area; we, ours. We’re headed for a collision.”
“Make your recommendation, Technarch McKenzie,” the Geoarch said mildly.
McKenzie rose. “I recommend that the newly returned faster-than-light ship be sent out once again, this time carrying a staff of negotiators who will make contact with the aliens. The negotiators will attempt to discover the purposes of these beings and to arrive at a cooperative entente in which certain areas of the galaxy will be reserved for one or the other of the colonizing races.”
“Who’s going to pilot the ship this time?” asked the Archon of Communication.
McKenzie looked surprised. “Why, we have a trained crew with us today who have proved their capabilities.”
“They’ve just returned from a month-long expedition,” Archon Wissiner protested. “These men have relatives, families. You can’t send them out again immediately!”
“Would it be better to risk our one completed faster-than-light ship by putting it in the hands of inexperienced men?” McKenzie asked. “If the Archonate approves, I will present before the end of the day a list of those men I think are suited for treating with the aliens. Once they have been assembled, the ship can leave at once. I leave the matter in your hands.”
McKenzie returned to his seat. A brief, spiritless debate followed; although several of the Archons privately resented the sometimes high-handed methods of the Technarch, they rarely dared to block his will when it came to a vote. McKenzie had been proved right too often in the past for anyone to go against him now.
He sat quietly, listening to the discussion and taking part only when it was necessary to defend some point. His features reflected none of the bitterness that had welled up within him since the return of the XV-ft1. The homecoming had been ruined for him.
Aliens building colonies, he thought bleakly. The shiny toy that was the universe was thus permanently tarnished in the Technarch’s mind. He had dreamed of a universe of waiting planets, through which mankind could spread like a swiftly-flowing river. But that was not to be. After hundreds of years, another species had been encountered. Equals? It seemed that way—if no worse. Whatever their capabilities, it meant that mankind now was limited, that some or perhaps all of the universe now Was barred to them. And in that respect McKenzie himself felt diminished.
There was nothing to do but negotiate, to salvage some portion of infinity for the empire of Earth. McKenzie sighed.
The vote took place. Each Archon operated a concealed switch beneath his section of the table. To the right for support of the measure, to the left for opposition. Above the table, a gleaming globe registered the secret tally. White was the color of acceptance, black that of defeat. McKenzie was the first to throw his switch; a swirl of pure white danced in the mottled gray depths of the globe. An instant later a spear of black lanced through the white—and then another white, another black. Gray predominated, swirling inconclusively. The hue leaned now toward the white, now to the black. Sweat beaded the Technarch’s forehead. The color grew light as votes were shifted.
At last the globe displayed the pure white of unanimity. The Geoarch said, “The proposal is approved. Technarch McKenzie will prepare plans for the negotiating mission and present them to us for our approval. This meeting is adjourned until reconvened by the Technarch.” Rising, McKenzie made his way down from the dais and toward the five spacemen.
“May we go now, Excellency?” Laurance asked, obviously keeping himself under tight leash.
“One moment. I’d like to have a word.”
“Of course, Excellency.”
“I didn’t come over to apologize. But I want to say that I know you boys deserve a vacation, and I’m sorry you can’t have one yet. Earth needs you to take that ship out. You’re the best we have; that’s why you have to go.”
He eyed the five of them—Laurance, Peterszoon, Nakamura, Clive, Hernandez. Half-throttled anger smouldered in their eyes. They were defiant; they had every reason to be. But they could see beyond their own momentary rage.
Laurance said, in his slow, deliberate way, “We’ll have a day or two, won’t we?”
“At least that much,” the Technarch said. “But as soon as the negotiators are gathered, you’ll have to go. If it’s worth anything to you—you’ll have a Technarch’s gratitude for going.” It was as far as McKenzie could lower himself toward being an ordinary human being. The smile slowly left his face, and he nodded a stiff salute and turned away. Laurance and his men would go. Now to pick the negotiating team.
CHAPTER 3
DR. MARTIN BERNARD was at his ease, that evening, in his South Kensington flat just off the Cromwell Road. Outside his window drifted London’s murky Sixmonth fog; but Martin Bernard took no notice of that. His windows were opaqued. Within the flat, all was cozy, warm, snug. As he liked it. Ancient music tinkled softly down from the overhead sonic screen: Bach, it was, a harpsichord piece.
Bernard lay sprawled in his vibrochair, cradling a volume of Yeats on his lap. A flask of rare brandy, twenty years old, imported from one of the Procyon worlds, was within reach. Bernard had his drink, his music, his poetry, his warmth. What better way, he asked himself, to relax after spending two hours trying to pound the essentials of sociometrics into the heads of an obtuse clump of sophomores?
Even as he relaxed, he felt a twinge of guilt at his comfort. Academic people were not generally thought of as sybarites. But he told himself that he deserved this comfort. He was the top man in his field. He had, besides, written a successful novel. His poems were highly esteemed and anthologized. He had struggled hard for his present acclaim; now, at forty-three, with the problem of money solved forever and the problem of his second marriage equally neatly disposed of, there was no reason why he should not spend his evenings in this luxurious solitude.
He leaned back, thumbing through Yeats. A wonderful poet, Bernard thought; perhaps the best of the Late Medievals.
That is no country for old men.
The young
In one another’s arms, birds in
the trees
—Those dying generations—at
their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-
crowded seas—
The phone chimed, shattering the flow. Bernard scowled and elbowed himself to a sitting position; putting down the book, he crossed to the phone cabinet and thumbed the go-ahead button. The screen brightened; but instead of a face, the image of the Technarch’s coat-of-arms appeared.
An impersonal voice said, “Dr. Martin Bernard?”
“That’s right.”
“Technarch McKenzie wishes to speak to you. Are you alone?”
“Yes. I’m alone.”
“Please apply unscrambler.” Bernard lowered the toggle at the side of the phone. A moment later the coat-of-arms gave way to the head and shoulders of the Technarch himself. Bernard stared levelly at the strong, blocky-featured face of McKenzie. He inclined his head respectfully and said, “Hearkening, Technarch.”
“Good evening, Dr. Bernard. Something unusual has arisen. I think you can help me—help us all.”
“If it’s possible for me to serve, Technarch—”
“It is. We’ve sent an experimental faster-than-light ship out, Dr. Bernard. It reached a system ten thousand light-years away. Intelligent colony-building aliens were discovered. We have to negotiate a treaty with them. I want you to head the negotiating team.”
The short, punchy sentences left Bernard dizzy. He followed the Technarch from one startling statement to the next; the final sentence landed with the impact of a blow.
“You want—me—to head the negotiating team?”
“You’ll be accompanied by three other negotiators and a crew of five. Departure will be immediate. The transit time is negligible. The period of negotiation can be as brief as you can make it. You could be back on Earth in less than a month.” Bernard felt an instant of vertigo. All seemed swallowed up: the book of poetry, the brandy, the warmth, the snugnesa. Punctured in a moment by this transatlantic call.
He said in a hesitant voice, “Why—why am I picked for this assignment?”
“Because you’re the best of your profession,” replied the Technarch simply. “Can you free yourself of commitments for the next several weeks?”
“I—suppose so.”
“I have your acceptance, then, Dr. Bernard?”
“I—yes, Excellency. I accept.”
“Your service will not go unrewarded. Report to Archonate Center as soon as is convenient, Doctor—and no later than tomorrow evening New York time. You have my deepest gratitude, Dr. Bernard.”
The screen went blank.
Bernard gaped at the contracting dot of light that had been the Technarch’s face a moment before. He stared down suddenly at the floor, dizzy. My God, he thought. What have I let myself in for? An interstellar expedition!
Then he smiled ironically. The Technarch had just offered him a chance to be one of the first human beings to meet face-to-face with an intelligent nonterrestrial. And here he was, worrying about a temporary Reparation from his piddling little comfortable nest. I ought be celebrating, he thought, not worrying. Brandy and vibrochairs can wait. This is the most important thing I’ll, ever do in my life.
He disconnected the sonic screen; the harpsichord music died away in the middle of a hanging cadence. Yeats returned to the bookshelf. He took a brandy and replaced the flask in the sideboard.
Packing was a problem; hi winnowed out several fat books packed two slim ones, some clothing, some memodiscs. He found himself unable to sleep even after taking a relaxotab and he rose near dawn to pact his flat in tense anticipation. A 1100 hours he decided to transmat across to New York, but his guidebook told him it would still be early in the morning on the other side of the Atlantic. He waited an hour, dialed ahead for courtesy permission to cross, and set his transmat for the Archonate Center.
Not many minutes later, he was in the private chambers of the Technarch McKenzie.
The Technarch was not in his chambers at the moment. But three other men were. One was a tall, dark-faced man with a gloomy scowl, dressed in the somber clothes that indicated his affiliation with the Neopuritan movement. Another was shorter, but still a little over six feet in height, a cheerfully affable-looking man in his early fifties. The third man was short and stocky, with quick, darting black eyes and heavy frown-lines in his forehead.
“Hello,” Bernard said. “My name’s Martin Bernard—I’m a sociologist. Are you three part of this outfit too?”
The affable-looking man put out his hand. “Roy Stone. Basically a politician, I guess. I’m understudy for the Archon of Colonial Affairs.”
“And I’m Norman Dominici,” the stocky one said. “Biophysicist, when I’m not out on expeditions to greenfaced aliens. Welcome to our little band.”
Only the Neopuritan had not offered an introduction. Bernard turned uncertainly toward him. “Hello?”
“He isn’t the friendly type,” Dominici warned sotto voce.
The big man turned slowly. He was, Bernard thought, a hulking giant of a man—six-feet-six, at least, with the aloof, withdrawn look that men sometimes get when they grow to enormous heights at precocious ages.
“The name is Thomas Havig,” the lanky Neopuritan said in a surprisingly thin voice. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Dr. Bernard—but we’ve shared the pages of several learned periodicals.”
