25: THE PACIFISTS

(No mention of the Pacifists can be found in Origin and History of the Sentient Races. )

The huge room was filling up. Here was a Canphorite, tall, slender, dignified; there sat an Emran, muscles bulging, shifting uncomfortably; walking through the doorway were ambassadors from Lodin XI, Castor V, and Procyon III, looking as unalike as any three sentient beings could look.

And standing in the midst of the gaudily dressed beings who had come from all points of the galactic compass were two Men.

“Looks like a pretty good turnout,” said Lipas, the smaller of the two.

“It's even better than I had hoped for,” said Thome. “We just may come out of this in good shape.”

A Teroni, its face obscured by the chlorine gas inside its helmet, approached them.

“Where is your delegation?” it asked.

“They'll be here, never fear,” said Thome in Galactic-O.

“They had better be,” said the Teroni, walking away to where a number of other chlorine-breathers were gathered.

“I wonder whatis keeping them,” said Lipas softly. “We're not going to be able to stall much longer.”

“They're only about half an hour late,” said Thome confidently. “And besides, a third of the aliens aren't here yet either.”

“Butthey aren't vital to the meeting,” said Lipas. “Weare.”

That was indeed the crux of it. It was Man who was the focal point of the meeting; any other race or even any group of races was merely window dressing.

Man had fallen upon hard times in the past century, hard even compared to those that existed at the beginning of the millennium. From four thousand worlds he was now reduced to less than five hundred. His military might, which during the heyday of the Oligarchy and early Monarchy could not even be computed, was now a matter of record: 53,305 battleships, a standing army of less than a billion, and some seventeen billion hand weapons. These were still formidable figures, but precious few of the races assembled in this room had any reason to be envious of them; most possessed far more firepower, and incomparably better communication systems.

Man's economy had suffered even more than his military power. Of his 489 worlds, some 368 were in the throes of a severe depression, while most of the others were fighting a losing battle against runaway inflation. The Deluros VI planetoids, with no finances available to maintain them, had finally been cannibalized and sold to alien scientific establishments.

On every front, Man's star was fast approaching its nadir. Isolated anti-human pogroms had turned into widescale wars of extermination, economic sanctions had turned into galaxywide boycotts, and treaties were signed and broken by alien races with the regularity that had once characterized the race of Man.

Man responded with bluff, guile, and pressure in proportions that he thought would do the most good; but the aliens had possessed a master teacher for millennia, and had learned their lessons well.

So Man resorted to force. Half his meager Navy was lost in one brief battle around Praesepe VI. The entire planet of Aristotle was blown up. The worlds of the Spica system were taken, one by one, in less than a week. Torn and reeling, bloody but unbowed, Man fought on.

Or rather, most Men did. But there were a few, such as Thome, who could see no sense in absorbing defeat after defeat, humiliation after humiliation. He did not preach surrender, for no Man—including himself—ever surrendered. But he spoke in favor of reaching a political accommodation with the other races of the galaxy, and soon had so many followers that he was encouraged to form a political party. It ran candidates for offices on Sirius V, Delta Scuti II, and Earth ... and lost every election. After an appropriate interval his followers ran again, and lost again.

Determined to prove to Mankind that pacifism was a viable alternative to a bitter series of wars that could end only in the extermination of the race, he went over the heads of his constituency and approached the aliens directly.

If he could arrange a conference between all the races of the galaxy, Man included, would they be willing to participate?

The aliens were in the driver's seat, and they knew it. Only if certain conditions were met, they answered, would they consent to such a meeting.

The conditions?

All delegates would speak with T-packs. Not modified Terran T-packs, but Galactic ones.

Thome agreed.

The meeting would be held on Doradus IV, symbolic of the first worldwide population that Man had wiped out through sheer carelessness, rather than malice.

Thome agreed.

The delegation of Men must be empowered to speak for the entire race. They'd had enough experience in signing agreements with one representative of the race and then having other Men deny that anyone had spoken for their specific interest groups.

Thome agreed.

The race of Man must totally disarm prior to the meeting.

Thome explained, time and again, that he did not have the influence or the power to make his race lay down its arms. That, after all, was one of the hoped-for goals of the meeting. However, he would guarantee that no Man attending the conference would bear arms.

After considerable procrastination, the aliens agreed.

There were, including Man, 13,042 intelligent races in the galaxy. Some of these, such as the insectoids of Procyon II, who had no interest in the affairs of other races, or the ichthyoids of Gamma Leporis IV, who bore Man no ill will, were not invited to the conference. But of the 11,039 races invited to send delegations, 9,844 had responded favorably.

Even such far-flung and exotic beings as the Vasorites, who spent their entire lives following their small red sun over the horizon on incredibly long, untiring legs, agreed to attend.

In fact, Thome had more trouble getting Man to agree to the meeting than any of the aliens. After all, Men were the reason for the meeting. They would be expected to disarm, to make territorial concessions, to pay economic tributes, and they weren't happy about it. Thome kept hitting away at the only alternative—racial death—and at long last the leaders of the loosely-knit Interstellar Union of Man, a conservative government that ruled more by consent than any effective manifestation of real political power, agreed.

There had been a lot of stipulations. The aliens must be informed that Man's presence should not be construed as any form of weakness or surrender, but merely a willingness to discuss the situation across a conference table instead of a battlefield. The aliens must realize that paltry as Man's armaments were, the race was in no way willing to leave itself totally defenseless. The aliens must understand that the use of a Galactic T-pack was only a temporary affectation, not a permanent reversal of long-standing human policy. The aliens must understand this, the aliens must do that, the aliens must yield on such-and-such a point...

Thome smoothed over as many points of disagreement as he could, then returned to the aliens with those demands which were not negotiable. The aliens gave in on a number of points, and he finally persuaded Man to yield on the remainder.

It had taken almost three years to set up the conference, years during which Man had lost seven more worlds, years during which Thome despaired almost daily of bringing the project to fruition, but at last the appointed moment had arrived. He looked around, smiling at the humanoid delegation from Emra, nodding to a passing Torqual, bowing low to a crystalline being from far Atria.

“It's going to work!” he whispered excitedly to his companion. “I can feel it in my bones. Look at them, Lipas. They're not out for blood. They want an end to the killing as much as we do.”

Lipas surveyed the room. “It's possible,” he admitted. “I shook hands with one of those Leptimus V creatures, and it didn't even flinch. A couple of years ago it would have raced off to its equivalent of a bathroom to wash away the taint of a Man's touch.”

A three-legged Pnathian lumbered over to Thome, an unbelievably complex T-pack arrangement attached to its helmet.

“I have been here for almost half a day,” it said. “When will the conference begin?”

“There are almost eighty races that have not yet arrived,” said Thome. “Once all are in attendance we shall proceed with our business, Ambassador.”

“And your delegation?” asked the Pnathian. “Is it here yet?”

“No,” said Thome. “It is one of the delegations we are waiting for.”

The Pnathian stared at him for a moment, then walked off to join one of the Lodinites.

In another two hours all but fourteen races had arrived, and Lerollion of Canphor VII, the leader of the Canphor Twins, approached Thome.

“Where is your delegation?” he said, and even the T-pack seemed to resonate with anger.

“They'll be here,” said Thome. “They are coming from almost half a galaxy away. I don't think being a few hours late constitutes a breach of trust.”

“Nonetheless, we cannot delay the conference any longer,” said Lerollion. “Have you any reason why we should not begin without your delegation?”

“Absolutely,” said Thome. “My delegation is the whole reason we're meeting here today.”

“Just the same,” said Lerollion, “it is time to begin.”

The Canphorite walked to the rostrum and, turning on the amplifier, requested the delegations to take their seats.

“Delegates,” he said, “I, Lerollion of Canphor VII, now declare this conference to be in order. The clerk will read the roll.

The clerk, a squat little being from Robel, began calling out the names of the worlds, from hot, dusty Aldebaran II to Zeta Piscium IX. Only six delegations were absent.

“I had written an introductory speech,” said Lerollion, “a speech of friendship and conciliation. With no offense to these assembled delegates, the speech was not written on your behalf, for you are all my friends, as well you know. It was written for one particular race of beings"—here he paused long enough to cast a hostile look at Thome—"a race from which I perhaps expected too much.”

“And yet,” he continued, “if I am to be disappointed, the fault is undoubtedly my own, for nothing in that race's history has given me any indication that it would either seek, recognize, or appreciate the words I had prepared. It is a race of barbarians, a race that is being given one last chance to join our peaceful community of worlds. I do not know why, under the circumstances, this race was not the first delegation to arrive. I do not know why it has not arrived yet. But I do know what the inevitable result will be should this race offend us this one last time.” He paused. “I see that Thome of the race of Man is requesting the floor. It is given.”

The Canphorite sat down, and Thome walked up to the amplifier.

“I am aware that the regrets and impatience Lerollion has expressed echo the sentiments of many of you,” he said. “This is understandable, and perfectly justified. The race of Man has indeed brought most of its current sorrows upon itself by its actions over several millennia of galactic rule and misrule. But it is for precisely that reason that this conference has been arranged. We come to you with new insights, new humility, new—”

“But you don't come to us at all,” said an Emran “Where is your delegation?” demanded a Domarian.

“Theywill be here, I assure you,” said Thome. “Characterize our flaws and faults in any way you wish, but grant us a certain degree of intelligence and self-preservation. My delegation will be here because there is no viable alternative.”

“In that you are correct,” said a Castorian. “There is no viable alternative.”

“Then let us proceed in a spirit of brotherhood,” said Thome. “I wish only to assure you of our sincerity. I now return the floor to Lerollion of Canphor VII.”

He walked back to the empty area reserved for his delegation, and seated himself next to Lipas.

“Any word from them yet?” he asked nervously.

Lipas shook his head.

“Well, damn it, they'd better get here soon!” snapped Thome.

“Did it ever occur to you that Lerollion might be right—that they're not going to show up?”

“They've got to,” said Thome firmly. “If they don't make an appearance, it's the end of everything.”

One after another, the alien delegations took the floor. Some of the speeches were conciliatory, some were noncommittal, some were overtly hostile. For hours they droned on, as Thome waited for his delegation.

Darkness fell, and Lerollion rose to speak once again.

“Several of the assembled races must indulge in a recess for purposes of sleep and nourishment,” he said. “However, if Thome of the race of Man will still offer his assurance that his delegation is expected to arrive, I am prepared to wait for them.”

“I don't know what has delayed them,” said Thome, “but I know they will come.”

“I understand that the psychology of your race is such that their appearance here will be extremely painful and humiliating to them, which is why I offer to wait,” said Lerollion. “However, if they are not here by sunrise tomorrow, I have orders to return to my home world, regardless of whether or not the conference continues.”

With that, he recessed the meeting and took his seat.

As night fell, Thome dozed sporadically. From time to time he awoke with a start, expecting to see his delegation entering the huge hall, but except for Lipas, Lerollion, and ten or twelve other beings, it was empty.

At daybreak Lerollion left, and most of the other alien delegations walked out with him. A handful remained until midday, and the ambassador from Quantos IX stayed until twilight.

Then Thome found himself alone with Lipas.

“Come along,” said the smaller man gently.

Thome shook his head vigorously.

“But it's obvious that they're not going to come,” said Lipas.

“Go ahead if you want,” said Thome. “I'll wait here by myself. Somebody should be here to greet them.”

Lipas looked at his friend, then sighed and walked out of the hall.

“They'll come,” said Thome softly, staring at the door through which no one would ever enter again. “Theymust come.”

He leaned back in his chair and waited.