“I understand, Baxter. The ships?”

  “Incredible.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “The ships are enormous. I can’t even tell you how wide they are. Everything seemed to extend out of sight. But, I’m pretty sure they are monitoring our commercial radio and television broadcasts. The lingpile—the thing they use to convert their language into and out of English—talks like Merv Griffin. They have some sort of force field or tractor beam that pulled me into their lead ship, and I think the same thing allows them to simulate gravity on board. Gravity appears to be Earth normal, and there appears to be no inducement of this by centrifugal force or other physical means. That’s it, except that they seem friendly —and curious.”

  “Baxter, do they appear secretive or evasive about themselves?”

  Baxter shook his head. “Not that I can tell. In fact, they provided me with a reader of some kind in case I wanted some diversion when I wasn’t sleeping. They prepared something for me that contains a nutshell history of them, their mission, and so on.”

  “You will begin on it at once, Baxter.”

  “Mr. Wyman, I’m a little bushed right now—”

  “At once, Baxter! Until we know more, all of us are groping in the dark-including you. Now, do your homework.”

  “Yessir.”

  “One more thing, Baxter.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We must establish to a certainty from where they came. If they, in fact, have come from Earth’s past, we must be sure. Do you have any indications other than their appearance? Things they’ve said? Answers to your questions?”

  “Mr. Wyman, I haven’t asked them Babe Ruth’s all-time batting average, or the words to ‘Yankee Doodle,’ if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “I understand. I’ll see about preparing a suitable list of questions—things based on our knowledge of the period they claim to be from. Is there anything you need?”

  Baxter thought a moment. “How is all this striking the public?”

  “Officially, we are denying everything, and so are the Soviets, but rumors are spreading fast. Too many people picked up that initial broadband contact, although it hasn’t grown serious yet.”

  “What about the Russian?”

  “Launch is still go for the day after tomorrow. We still don’t have a line on what they plan to pull. That it?”

  “Yes. Baxter out.” He released the switch, sighed and slid to the front edge of the seat, then dropped to the floor. The edge of the seat came to his waist. Baxter walked to the door panel, reached up and pressed the platter-sized button with both hands. Part of the wall dilated iris fashion, exposing a wide corridor and a Nitolan standing guard. The creature walked to the opening, its heavy tail scraping harshly against the deck, and stooped in Baxter’s direction.

  “May I help you, Captaincarlbaxter? I am Simdna.”

  Baxter nodded and pointed at the swept-screened contraption attached to a chair by a swinging metal brace. “Yes. Medp said that I could use the reader if I wanted, but I am ignorant of its operation.” Baxter walked to the reader chair, climbed up and settled in as the Nitolan followed, then pushed the reader more closely to the chair. “Now, what do I do?”

  Simdna picked up two pancake-sized tabs and held them out to Baxter. “Put one on each side of your head. They will attach themselves.”

  Baxter held one tab in each hand, then held them to the sides of his head. “What now?”

  Simdna pointed toward a panel. “This will begin the record.” He pointed at a slotswitch. “The more you pull this toward you, the faster will run the record.”

  Baxter nodded. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ll need anything else.”

  Simdna turned, left the room and the door closed after him. Baxter studied the screen then looked at the panel for starting. He leaned forward and pushed it with the palm of his hand. At once, a feeling of mild intoxication swept him. It stayed as he pulled the switch, and images and narratives attacked his senses at high input levels. He realized this, but realized also that he understood it all, as fast as it was. He pulled again at the slotswitch…

  … The Nitolans were a highly-evolved race, with self-made imperatives of right and wrong, a structured social system, great cities, long before man thought these even to exist. In the midst of the great reptiles, the Nitolans had science, law, and the creation of wealth, for the Power was theirs. They studied truth…

  … And the knowing ones read their instruments and saw the death of every creature that could not hide within the mud or beneath the waters. The night brightstar would grow in brilliance, until it washed all other stars from the sky, and even paled Amasaat from the day sky. To survive, the Nitolans must leave the planet for as long as the planet took to again become green and alive with creatures.

  While the wisest of the knowing ones searched the future for a time that would serve the race, others of the knowing ones spread across Nitola to tell the things that they had learned. “We must leave Nitola, else the race shall die.”… Many believed and helped to construct the great ships that would protect precious cargo through the vacuum of space and the emptiness of time. Others did not believe and the Power was turned against itself as the factions decided the issue through blood.

  As the ships were completed, the war concluded, and the victors gathered among the ships to depart Nitola. The knowing ones looked at their planet and saw the ravaged cities, the gaping wounds of mines and quarries, their own structures for building the ships. They wondered if this evidence, if left behind, would lead an alien visitor or a newly evolved race to find them and destroy them as they crossed the void. The Power was turned against the cities, and the other marks they had made, removing all trace of their existence. Then, they swept the planet and removed all traces of the substance of the Power, should they return to find a newly evolved race using the Power and turning it against the homecomers.

  When all was done, the ships were filled, the travelers’ life processes were slowed, and the journey begun…

  “There are many of us who share your mind, Deayl.”

  Deayl looked from Nozn to his companion Suleth, then back to Nozn. “My mind has been voted down by the council. What brings you to my quarters?”

  Nozn studied Deayl. “We read the piles and can see what the hue-muns do. Many of us would not wait until the creatures render Nitola unfit for habitation.”

  Deayl turned away and studied a blank wall. “If there are such as you talk about, they would disgrace themselves by acting against the common mind.”

  Suleth looked from Nozn to Deayl. “We have had enough of these word games, Deayl. Do you plan to take an action?”

  “Action?”

  Suleth nodded. “Will you lead us?”

  Deayl lowered himself to his sleeping pallet, placed his head on his cushion, and looked up at the overhead. “I will speak with you two later.”

  Nozn placed a clawed hand on Suleth’s arm to quiet him, then nodded at Deayl. “It is my mind that this task would be bonded by our exchanging of names. Is this your mind as well, Deayl?”

  Deayl rolled over and propped himself up with an elbow. His black eyes fixed Nozn to the deck. “No! Treason to our race is no excuse for friendship!” He lowered himself back to his cushion. “Leave me now. I will call you if I wish to converse further.”

  Nozn and Suleth bowed and left Deayl’s quarters. Deayl rolled to his left side, his eyes tightly shut. I belittle myself enough by the enterprise I have undertaken. I shall not suck others into the same mire. He opened his eyes and spoke to a dark corner of the compartment. “You are my governor, Lothas, and you speak for the common mind.” Deayl sighed. “But, you stand between us and our home. Isn’t yours the greater crime?” Deayl closed his eyes and tossed. The question was yet to be answered in his own mind.

  Midway through the next planetary cycle, Baxter bid farewell to his Nitolan friend Illya, then entered his quarters and flopped onto his sleeping pallet. He detached the insulated gloves from his suit, threw them aside and placed his hands against his cheeks. His face felt drained of color. Without rising, Baxter keyed his transceiver. “State, this is Messenger.” He opened his eyes and looked at the overhead. “State, this is Messenger. Do you read?”

  “Go ahead, Baxter. This is Wyman.”

  Baxter licked his lips, took a deep breath, then sat up. “Wyman, are there any manned missions on the Moon—secret things that I don’t know about?”

  “I’m sure there aren’t, but I can check it for you. Is it important?”

  “It’s important. I also want to know if the Soviets have anything on the Lunar surface, and if so, where.”

  “Understood. What’s going on, Baxter?”

  Baxter shook his head. I’m rattled, that’s what’s going on. Calm down.

  “I was taken on a demonstration today. It’s a thing they call ‘the power.’ I saw a quarter of the Lunar surface turned into glass in less time than it’s taking me to tell you about it.” Baxter licked his lips again. “My guide took me down about two hours later and I walked the surface. The dark side now has a mare that makes Imbrium, Serenity, and Tranquility together look like a wading pool.” The radio remained silent. “Did you copy that, Wyman?”

  “Baxter, what is your feeling about it?”

  Baxter’s eyes widened. “My feeling? How in the Hell do you think I feel about it? If these lizards want to, they can fry my entire planet in about twenty minutes!”

  “What I meant, Baxter, is your feeling about the purpose of the demonstration.”

  Baxter thought a moment, then flushed. “I suppose its purpose was to produce exactly the kind of hysterical gibbering I’ve been doing; correct?”

  “Correct. Look, Baxter; you are not dealing with an overweight Congressional committee or the local school board. You can’t make a mistake, then go back and patch it up later with an apology or some syrup from the White House. You have to keep your head clear and your feelings out of it, while you look for angles, feel out the edges, find out where to push, and where to back off. You understand?”

  Baxter shook his head. “You diplomatic types have all the sensitivity of an oyster.”

  State paused for a long moment. “It’s not lack of feelings, Baxter; it’s called guts. Grow some. Wyman out.”

  Baxter released the key on his transceiver, stood, and began shucking his pressure suit. At least I wasn’t as rattled as Deayl. The Nitolan had walked the Lunar surface with him, and had been strangely quiet. Deayl’s answers to direct questions were brief, shaken, and almost incoherent. I wonder what my old buddy Illya was nervous about?

  The iris to Baxter’s compartment opened and the Nitolan called Simdna entered. “I extend an invitation from Lothas, our governor, to meet with him in private before you meet with the full council.”

  Baxter nodded. “I am most happy to accept his invitation.” I’m already beginning to talk like a diplomat. “When does Lothas wish to see me?”

  “Is it convenient for you to come now?”

  “Yes.”

  Simdna backed away from the door and held out a clawed hand. “Then Lothas would see you now.”

  On the way to his quarters, Deayl sagged against the corridor wall. He turned his head up, then closed his eyes and let his muzzle drop to his chest. The claws on his fingers dug into his palms, the pain almost blotting out the waves of self-condemnation that threatened to drive his mind empty. He heard the sound of someone approaching, and he pushed himself away from the wall and opened his eyes. It was Nozn.

  “There you are, Deayl.”

  “Here I am.”

  Nozn turned back, and seeing the corridor empty, returned his gaze to Deayl. “The hue-mun still lives, Deayl. If you cannot perform the task, leave it to someone who can.”

  Deayl hissed, his eyes sparking. “You forget your place, Nozn!”

  Nozn closed his eyes and performed a shallow bow. “I meant no disrespect, Deayl.”

  “I shall do what needs to be done, and with no one’s help. That I can keep all others but myself clean from this act is my only claim to honor. Do not take this from me by becoming involved.”

  Nozn bowed again. “It will be as you wish, Deayl.” He stood and half-turned to go. “But, if you should fail, there are others who will not.” Nozn nodded once, then moved off down the corridor.

  Deayl placed a hand against the corridor wall, turned his gaze toward the deck plates, and saw the glassy surface of Naal, the child-moon of Nitola. Baxter had stood on the thin crust of the molten pool, and it would have taken only a slight shove to have removed the creature from existence. The Council would have accepted the event as an accident, while the humans on the planet would have… Are the hue-muns that sensitive that they would attempt retaliation on the basis of one suspicious death? Will they adopt an attitude that will make their removal the only option left to the Council, for just one death? Deayl wiped his hand over his muzzle, then let it drop to his side. Or, will the hue-muns’ tribes be more reflective, making the murder I will commit a futile gesture ?

  Deayl, still supporting himself by moving his hand along the corridor wall, walked the few remaining steps to his quarters. He pressed the panel and the iris opened. Inside, the compartment was black, making the door appear as the dark, slathering maw of some nightmare-begotten creature. If the hue-muns know it is a murder, the Council will as well. But, perhaps this is the only way—exchange my future for the future of my race. Deayl stepped into the iris, and it closed behind him.

  Baxter stared at the upholstered, wing-backed chair in disbelief. From its wooden claw-on-ball legs to the garish oranges and yellows of the fabric, the chair appeared to have been cloned from a discount department store’s loss leader. He looked over to Lothas. The Nitolan governor reclined on several of the familiar thick cushions. “Where did you get this?” Baxter held out a hand toward the chair.

  “Do you like it? I hope it is comfortable.”

  Baxter lowered himself into it, did one or two experimental bounces, then leaned back and crossed his legs. “It’s fine.”

  “That pleases me, Captaincarlbaxter. It was constructed according to information gleaned from your television transmissions. It was felt that you might find our furniture out of size.”

  Baxter smiled. “Thank you very much… do I call you ‘governor’?”

  “I am Lothas. If you would exchange names, I am called Dimmis.”

  Baxter nodded. “Very well, Dimmis. I am called Baxter. I appreciate the chair very much.”

  “Another like it will be placed in your quarters, and one more in the conference compartment where you will meet with my council.”

  “Excellent.” Baxter wondered if he should mention something about the horrible pattern, but decided against it.

  “We can prepare you one of your beds, if you wish.”

  Baxter held up his hands. “Thank you, but that would be quite unnecessary. I find the cushions in my quarters very comfortable.”

  Lothas nodded. “Baxter, you know of us and our mission, do you not?”

  “Yes. I watched the record you prepared before I slept.”

  The governor nodded again. “Still, you know too little of us, and we, too little of you.” The Nitolan sat up and pulled a table console to where he could reach it. “The knowing ones have amassed a great deal of information from your radio and television, and from the visual and sensor surveys they have done. Still, we know too little to judge properly what we should do.”

  Baxter nodded. These lizards don’t know what to do any more than I do. “I understand. If you will tell me the information you want, perhaps I can arrange to get it for you.”

  “We understand that your information storage piles can talk to each other, is this not true?”

  Baxter nodded. “Yes. Computers.”

  “The information we need appears to be contained in a number of your… computers. I would like to send three of our knowing ones down to a place that can talk to your computers.”

  “I’ll see if I can arrange it.”

  Lothas sat quietly for a moment, then lifted his head. “There is much, Baxter, that we must learn about each other, as well.”

  Baxter followed the direction of the governor’s gaze and saw nothing but an inverted green dome set into the overhead. He looked back at Lothas and shrugged. “I agree, we must…”

  Baxter’s vision blurred as Lothas removed a hand from the console beside his cushion bed.

  “It is good you agreed, Baxter. Trust is important.” Lothas’s hand rose to the console, and Baxter felt himself expanding, whirling up and out, as the compartment went black.

  He felt his gorge rise as he realized he was standing off to one side observing while another thumbed and sorted through his memories. From memories to automatized interactions and responses as memories were let to play, mesh, divide, and redivide according to their own dictates.

  … the job; the goddamned job… still haven’t called Boxman. Deb. That damned Argyle sock… He felt his thoughts pulled from one area, then forced into another… a documentary; stacking them up like cordwood in Auschwitz… Eichmann in a little glass booth… Korea, Lebanon, Vietnam, Gaza, Suez, South Afr…

  His thoughts plunged down a dimly lit hole… a little red balsa wood plane with a wind up… Christmas, and Grandma’s there, so we’ll say grace this time… high school, college… planes at the grass strip near Evanston… testing at Lockheed… Air Force…

  A cesspool of repressed fear yawned before him… The Python, panic… what to do, God, what to do?… the size of them… why me ?…

  Baxter opened his eyes and saw Lothas removing his hand from the console. The Nitolan stared at him for a long time, then held its hands over its eyes for a moment. Lothas let his hands fall to his knees. “Baxter… you, your race… you are everything…” He waved a hand toward his compartment’s iris. “Please leave. Take no offense, but please leave. I must think.”

 

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