The secretary nodded. “You must know the value in eyeball-to-eyeball negotiations, Captain. When you deal with groups and committees on behalf of the Air Force, do you telephone or appear in person?”

  Baxter nodded, noting the chains being locked in place. “And what am I supposed to attempt to accomplish?”

  “Your meaning?”

  “Mr. Secretary, the only purpose of public relations, or diplomacy for that matter, is to get people to do things that they would normally not do. If everyone did what we wanted, there would be no need for PR types or diplomats. Now, just what is it that I am supposed to get them to do?”

  The secretary frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know!”

  “Captain, if these beings are what they say they are —inhabitants of Earth from over seventy million years ago —it is possible that they are thinking of reclaiming the planet for themselves. In such a case, discourage them.” The secretary raised his eyebrows and held out his hands. “However, they may be from another solar system and bent on conquering Earth. Then, perhaps, in either case, it may prove beneficial to have them on our side. They are obviously more advanced… but, then again, it might be better to sic them on the Russians.” The secretary dropped his hands into his lap. “All I can say, Baxter, is look out for the interests of your country, and the interests of your planet and the human race, while you’re at it.”

  An hour later, as two technicians stood waiting to help him into his pressure suit, Baxter remembered that he had forgotten to telephone Boxman about the Boxman Spring account. He sat down on a cold metal bench and untied his shoes. Security on the base was locked up tighter than a million uninflated dollars, and no calls allowed. Deb! I can’t call her! She’ll kill me! He removed his red and yellow Argyle sock and held it in his hand. It had a hole in it. I guess it’s just going to be one of those days.

  Lothas studied the circle of eight faces seated around the polished black table in the half-light of the governor’s conference compartment, aft of the control center. Deayl brushed a clawed hand over his muzzle, then let the hand drop to the surface of the table. “Lothas, it is still my mind that we wait no longer. The hue-muns are divided, and they have nothing that can protect them against the Power. We can brush them aside.”

  Lothas examined the other faces. “How many of you have this mind?” Four clawed hands went forward toward the center of the table. “The mind that counsels us to wait, then, still prevails.”

  Deayl put two fists on the table and turned to the ones who had not voted with him. “After seventy million cycles traveling from and to our home, we are to sit here polishing our claws? We are so close!”

  Lothas noted that two who had voted with him were wavering. The desire to go home was strong, and Deayl’s argument appealed to that desire. The desire twisted with no less strength in Lothas, but he held out his hands. “Our knowledge of the hue-muns is but pieces —what they are, and what they can do. The hue-muns’ knowledge of us is even less —what we are, and what we can do.” He lowered his hands to the table. “We must also grant that the sense of right we feel in our cause is shared by the hue-muns in their cause. They grew to dominate and control Nitola, much as we did. By what we acknowledge to be the right—”

  “No!” Deayl crossed his wrists. All could hear the angry swishing of his tail across the deck. “We do not know that. What if the hue-muns are from another planet? What if they invaded our home planet, and now simply stand to defend their conquest?”

  Lothas nodded. “The hue-muns must have like suspicions about us, Deayl. After all, they are on the planet; we are the ones in space ships.” He brought his hands together. “We have much to learn about each other, if we are to avoid error.” Lothas looked around the table and stopped on Deayl. “Do you wish another vote?”

  Deayl leaned against his back rest. “No. Not at the present.”

  Medp entered the compartment, bowed toward those seated at the table, then turned toward Lothas. “We have just been told that the hue-muns’ representative has been launched. Other hue-muns, speaking the Russian, have said that the true representative will be launched in three days, and that we should refuse to see the other.”

  Lothas looked at the table top, then raised his glance and looked at Deayl. “We do have much to learn. Deayl, I will leave to you the task of instructing our visitor in what we can do. If hue-muns understand the Power, they will understand our power.”

  “Yes, Lothas.”

  Lothas stood and bowed toward the ones seated at the table. The others stood and bowed in return. Lothas turned toward the control center and entered, Medp at his side. “Medp, do you have contact with the representative?”

  “Yes. He is called Captaincarlbaxter.”

  Lothas nodded. “Is everything in readiness?”

  “Yes. It will take him approximately a tenth of a cycle to come into safe power range.”

  Lothas tucked his tail between the seat and backrest of a chair before a monitor and sat down. He lifted his head and looked at Medp. “Deayl will sway some minds before the council sits again.”

  Medp nodded and pointed at the monitor. Nitola hung blue-white in the blackness of space. “The feeling is very strong, Lothas. All of us can see, and… we have been away for a very long time.”

  Lothas turned toward the monitor, studied once more the beautiful planet, then nodded. “Have you assembled enough information to comprehend this squabble and division among the hue-muns?”

  Medp shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We can see a little. We have determined from their transmissions, and our sensor surveys support this, that there are over four billion hue-muns belonging to the various tribes.”

  “Four billion?”

  “And, they grow in numbers every day. This does not explain all, but it lets us see a little.”

  Lothas changed the positions on several slotswitches, then energized a panel, causing a tiny dot to appear on the monitor. He pressed another panel, and the dot expanded until the monitor was filled with an image of a sleek, black ship, just separating from a cluster of acceleration tubes. “Such a tiny craft. Have you come to a determination about the hue-muns’ rite called humor?”

  “It is exasperating. The loud reaction—the laughing, chuckling and so on—appears to be pleasurable. But, the causes of the reaction—pain, misfortune, shame, misunderstanding—all are causes of grief as well.” Medp looked at the monitor. “It needs more information for sense to be made of it. Still, they are fascinating creatures. I could devote my remaining cycles to studying them.”

  Lothas extended a claw toward the monitor. “Part of your wish approaches now, Medp: Your first specimen, Captaincarlbaxter.”

  Baxter was surprised at how familiar everything was. The wing drop from the mother plane, the slam of the initial and secondary burns, even the attitude correction rockets. He looked out of the tiny canopy windows, little more than a hand’s breadth from his faceplate, to see himself floating on the outer limits of Earth’s atmosphere. Above, the sky was star-studded black. He searched the space above for a visual sighting, but could see nothing. He looked down, and the cluster of ships was indicated clearly on his screen. As he studied the screen, he finally realized what he was about to do. The frustrations of the morning and the skull-popping briefing by the Python’s pilot, plus frantic phone conversations with several Undersecretaries of State, along with a brief inspirational call from the President, faded as the thought of meeting… whoever they are, filled his mind.

  This is a bigger event than walking on the moon. This is what generations of movie makers and novelists have speculated about.

  “Messenger, this is Mission Control.”

  Baxter opened his channel. “This is Messenger. Go ahead.”

  “Messenger, we’re patching you into a line connected with the State Department. Stand by.”

  Baxter listened to a series of clicks, howls, and crackles. “Captain Baxter, this is Undersecretary Wyman. Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Mr. Wyman.”

  “Baxter, our most recent information on the Soviet mission indicates that they will have a man up in less than three days. They are sending Lavr Razin. Razin is a former cosmonaut, now attached to the Soviet mission to the U.N. Understand?”

  “Affirmative. Can you tell me anything about him?”

  The channel went dead for long moments, then came to life. “Baxter, since we don’t know, we are assuming that none of our transmissions are secure from the… visitors.” Another pause. “We can tell you to watch out. Razin is no Fozzie Bear, savvy?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Goodbye, and good luck, Baxter.”

  Baxter signed off with Mission Control, wishing that Undersecretary Wyman’s goodbye hadn’t sounded so final. He gave his instruments a casual sweep, then looked out of the left side canopy window. Green fire danced upon the Python’s skin. “Captaincarlbaxter?”

  “This is Messenger. Go ahead, Mission Control.”

  A long pause. “I am called Deayl. Are you Captaincarlbaxter?”

  A strange feeling began tugging at Baxter’s stomach. The voice sounded… ultranormal—the ideal of every midwestern radio announcer. “Yes, this is Baxter.”

  “Greetings. Our instruments inform us that, unless you remove the force of your engines, you will be destroyed.” Baxter turned back to his own instruments. Every dial was either pegged or dead. “We have you in the grip of our power. With it, we shall bring you into our control ship. It will not harm you, unless you fail to turn off your engines.”

  Baxter raised a gloved hand, hesitated, then began punching and flicking switches according to the Python’s shutdown SOP. “The craft is shut down… Deayl.”

  “Sensible. I am curious, Captaincarlbaxter. What were you hue-muhs seventy million years ago?”

  Baxter swallowed and tried to recall his ten minute high-speed briefing on the lineage of Man. “After all, Baxter, they may want to establish the authenticity of our claim to this planet.” “At that stage, we were prosimians — the apes hadn’t evolved yet. You know what I mean when I say ‘apes’?”

  “Yes. We have seen them on your transmissions.”

  Baxter frowned. What if those guys can pick up every radio and T. V. transmission on Earth ? They could assemble quite a body of information. “Interesting.”

  “What did the prosimians look like?”

  “Well, I understand that they were small, long-tailed creatures that resembled present-day squirrels. Probably, they were adept at securing food by leaping about in the trees, eating fruit, seeds, eggs—”

  “Ah, the tree jontyl. I recognize them. That is very curious, Captaincarlbaxter. Tree jontyls were very well-known to my race when we occupied this planet. My mouth has been watering for one for over seventy million years. I am looking forward to seeing you.”

  They called themselves Nitolans —Earthlings in another tongue. As his craft approached the ship in the lead center of the armada of Nitolan vessels, Baxter felt the awe he experienced when, as a boy often, he had been taken into St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York. One hundred and ninety-seven ships, and any one of them large enough to dwarf a supertanker. The ships were long, cylindrical, and with ridges along the sides that could be retractable wings. As he observed the smooth skin and flowing configuration of the ships, Baxter realized that the vessels were designed for atmospheric flight. “Captaincarlbaxter?”

  “This is Baxter. Deayl?”

  A pause. “This is Deayl. This shortening of the name; is this a friendly gesture of you hue-muns?”

  “Yes… everybody just calls me ‘Baxter’—even my wife.”

  “Your mate?”

  Baxter nodded to himself. “Yes.”

  Another pause. “Very well, Baxter. I will accept this gesture in kind. I am known as Illya…” Baxter listened while the Nitolan supervising his approach seemed to be wrestling with a thought. “This gesture, Baxter. Understand that it does not obligate me to anything.”

  Baxter smiled. This guy could have come straight from a Middle East peace conference. “I understand, Illya. Is there anything I should know about being taken into your ship’s landing bay?”

  “If your craft has surface landing apparatus that is now retracted, you should prepare it. Otherwise, we can suspend your craft in a neutral field. Air will be normal to you.”

  Baxter noted the existence of artificial gravity. None of the ships were spinning. The Python landed on two fixed rear skids and a nose wheel. He threw the switch and felt the wheel lower and lock as his eyes confirmed the event by observing the safe/go light for the landing gear. “Landing gear down and locked, Illya.”

  “Noted.”

  Baxter watched as the underside (toward Earth) of the ship opened, much like the iris of a camera. Dull red light came from the bay, and as the Python closed on the iris, Baxter felt a slight panic at the size of the opening, then at the size of the bay. I feel like a pea rattling around in a fifty-five gallon drum!

  The Python rose just above the opening, and Baxter watched open-mouthed as the enormous iris blinked shut. His craft was gently lowered to the deck, and he let out his breath. He checked his instruments, shut down the works, and waited. In the distance he could see four jumbo-jet-sized ships parked off to the side. The bay switched from red to yellow light, and Baxter’s mouth remained open as a hatch opened and a delegation of gray-green, long-necked, heavy-tailed creatures entered.

  They walked toward him on powerful legs with clawed feet. Although bipedal, they stooped forward, carrying their long, thin arms in front. Baxter’s gaze went from the clawed toes to the clawed fingers, then to the gleaming rows of teeth. As he unstrapped, removed his helmet and cracked the Python’s canopy, Baxter ran a dry tongue over equally dry lips. He stood, stepped over the side of the cockpit, pushing his toes into the step holes, and climbed down from his craft. He turned as the delegation of creatures came to a halt. Stooped over, the creatures were only a little taller than himself. One of them rotated its body, bringing its neck and head well above the others. Baxter cleared his throat and croaked, “I bring you greetings from the President of the United States.”

  Deayl watched the scene of the docking bay reception a moment longer, then closed his eyes. If so long ago we had not abandoned our gods. If I could only lay my burden at the feet of old Sisal, or old Fane. He extended a claw and shut off the monitor. Energizing another monitor, he watched Nitola, and his pain eased.

  I do not do it for myself, but for all of us. He kept his eyes on the image as he pressed the signal to Lothas’ quarters.

  “Lothas.”

  “Deayl, Lothas. Baxter has landed safely, and Medp brings him now to the quarters prepared for him.”

  “Deayl, is ‘Baxter’ the representative’s name of friendship?”

  Deayl lowered his muzzle to his chest. “Yes. And I extended mine to him.”

  “This is good. He shall rest for the remainder of the cycle, then you shall demonstrate to him the Power. I shall meet with him after.”

  “All will be as you wish, Lothas.”

  “Deayl, with your mind concerning the return to Nitola, exchanging names with the hue-muns was a fine gesture.” A pause, as though Lothas expected some sort of comment. “Deayl, I know you disapprove of my direction as governor, but I know you to be a strong and determined champion of our race. I would exchange names with you. I am called ‘Dimmis.’”

  Deayl wiped a shaking hand over his muzzle, then nodded. “I am called ‘Illya.’ “

  “A home for you, Illya.”

  Deayl pressed the panel, extended his fingers, and placed his palms over his eyes. Ah! Ah, it comes! The pain returns. How many disgraces must I bring upon myself before my task is done? How many?

  In his quarters, Baxter sagged as he tried to get comfortable in the strange chair. As near as he could figure it, he had just completed a three kilometer dead run from the docking bay, trying to keep up with the delegation. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. The white bulkheads were bare, except for the three iris-like doors. One door led to a closet, another to the corridor, and the third to a bathroom straight from one of Baxter’s more imaginative nightmares. He had been literally relieved to find that he could use the equipment, although with some difficulty. On the deck, several thick cushions were arranged for sleeping. His chair had a black metal frame and was upholstered with a soft green fabric. Baxter sat on one side of the seat, since the center-rear was open to comfortably seat the Nitolan tail. The backrest, tilted forward to accommodate the creatures’ stooping backs, dug into Baxter’s shoulderblades. His ankles reached to the edge of the seat.

  He reached to his belt and pressed the switch to his radio that, through the relay set in the Python, would keep him in touch with Earth. “Mission Control, this is Messenger.”

  “Messenger, report on your situation.”

  “I’m established in quarters. At the moment, I’m supposed to be resting… although that’s going to be a little difficult. At about oh-four-hundred GMT tomorrow, I’ll be taken on some kind of demonstration, then meet Lothas. The best their language mechanics can make out of his title is ‘governor.’ Then, whatever negotiations there will be will begin.”

  “Acknowledged, Messenger. From now on, until you begin preparations for reentry, your communications will be handled by the State Department mission control. Stand by.”

  Baxter looked down from the chair at the knee-high thick pallet on the deck that would serve him as a bed during his stay. “Baxter, this is Wyman. Do you read?”

  “Five by five, Mr. Wyman.”

  “Good. What have you found out?”

  “The Nitolans, first. They look like a cross between a kangaroo, an ostrich and an alligator; general shape for the first, eyes for the second, claws and teeth for the third —lots of teeth. The head is pretty large.”

 

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