by Daniel F. Galouye
Daniel Galouye has had many fine science-fiction stories published, and the best of them have showed a single pattern. He is good at all kinds of science-fiction, but he is at his flavorful peak when he takes a standard science-fiction gimmick and stands it on its head. Everyone knows scores of stories in which aliens from outer space conquer Earth. It takes a Galouye to seek out the mirthful other side of the coin—where Earth sends out missions to the aliens, pleading to be conquered.
“But we’re not Malarkans!” Secretary of Commerce Munsford’s hands executed an impatient gesture that was lost in the vast office.
The official behind the desk scrutinized Munsford and the Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs. “Malarkans are always playing tricks like this.”
The Secretary of Commerce straightened with constraint, forcing an exaggerated degree of dignity that was complemented by his thin gray hair. “This is no trick, sir.”
“We’re Solarians,” explained Bradley Edgerton, righteously taking exception. “To be more exact, we’re—”
“You look like Malarkans to me,” the official grumbled unbudgingly as a weight on his desk levitated and thumped itself back down to emphasize his skepticism. The humans tried not to stare. He was full of tricks like that. “It’d be just like them to try to kick off a wild vataar hunt for some imaginary world.”
“To be more exact,” the Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs continued doggedly, “we’re Solcensirians—a composite word for we who inhabit three systems, Sol, Centauri and Sirius. We have until very recently been unaware of the Greater Galactic Community.”
The official leaned back, his bulging, many-faceted eyes staring through the distant wall. One of the tendril-like growths on his forehead vacillated. It was a summons. At once an assistant materialized beside the desk.
“Run a check on three systems called Sol, Centauri and Sirius,” the official ordered. “I want complete data on position and date of initial contact.” The assistant nodded and vanished.
Edgerton gripped the desk. “But you won’t find them listed! That’s why we’re here. We want to get registered for trading privileges.”
“Toveen tells us we have a wealth of raw materials that’s in extreme demand,” Edgerton added eagerly. “And there’s so much we can gain from contact.”
He stared through the wall that became transparent under the imperceptible pressure of a glance. And, visibly awed, he surveyed the towering spires and curving ramps and vast precincts of Megalopolis—a city that, made even the most advanced Solcensirian metropolis look like a hick town.
The official glanced up questioningly. “Who’s Toveen?”
Munsford relaxed, satisfied that finally the conversation had taken direction. “Toveen is an independent trader. He plotted a new course through one of our systems and encountered a Centaurian ship.”
“He told us about the Community,” Edgerton continued, “and placed his High Galactic linguistic assimilator at our disposal. He also brought us here in his ship.”
Munsford spread his hands impatiently. “Now will you register us?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” the official said sharply. “This is only the Racial Traits Division of the Department of Galactic Coordination. You’ll have to go to the Bureau of Trade Compacts, I suppose.”
* * * *
Megalopolis was vast and wonderful and completely covered the surface of Centralia—a stark edifice of colossal proportions symbolizing the triumph of Galactic Man over his stellar environment. It was a place that accommodated the representatives of a thousand diverse races. It was a wonderland of fantastic color and crisp efficiency, of sprawling parks and magnificent fountains, tall buildings and grandiose statues—all products of a technology that meager Solcensirian science couldn’t even conceive.
To Munsford, it was a composite of awe-inspiring might and polish. It left him numb.
Edgerton, chin in hand, was staring sullenly out the window of the surface car as it glided effortlessly over the elevated, high-speed ramp.
“We don’t seem to be getting anywhere, Andrew,” he sighed. “Knocking around from office to office, trying to find the right door to get our foot into—”
The Secretary of Commerce gripped the other’s shoulder. “We’re going to succeed,” he said with determination. “We’ve got to. There are ten billion people back home, all waiting for the bright new era to start.”
Edgerton laughed mirthlessly. He ran a hand over his bald head, shining in the warm, friendly glow of Centralia’s vivid orange sun. “Funny. That’s how I look at it, too. We’re like a tribe of prespace savages just come into contact with civilization and patiently waiting for all the marvels of science and culture to descend upon them.”
Then he stared soberly at Munsford. “Suppose we’re not accepted?”
The driver, a loosely dressed man with baggy, faded clothes and a cherry-red face that abounded with exotic features, turned half around.
“You’ll be accepted—if that’s what you want,” he prophesied.
Munsford leaned forward. “But suppose we can’t qualify, Toveen? What if they won’t have us?”
Toveen laughed. “They’ll register you when they find out about all that carbon and silicon.”
“I suppose,” Munsford agreed, “it is just a matter of finding the right office to get the ball rolling.”
The driver sent the vehicle in a tight climb up a ramp that spiraled endlessly around a towering needle of a building. He braked it in front of an imposing high-level entrance.
“I think this is the Bureau of Trade Compacts.” He followed them out and punched the autocontrol stud, sending the car off to park itself. “Wait here; I’ll make certain.”
Toveen disappeared through the arched entrance and Munsford and Edgerton moved closer to the gleaming metal wall so they wouldn’t obstruct traffic boarding the mobile pedestrian strip.
The strip, the Secretary of Commerce marveled, was an incredible triumph of mechanical science. Although it was unbroken and endless, it somehow slowed almost to a stop before the entrance, yet maintained undiminished speed approaching and receding from the building.
His gaze left the strip and wandered fascinated upward along the ramps and spires and lofty buildings that obscured the sky and plunged the streets below into dense shadows.
The Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs nudged him. He looked around, suddenly aware that he had been gawking like a back-planet bumpkin. He shrank self-consciously before the amused stares of several Megalopolitans.
Edgerton gestured awkwardly toward the audience they had attracted. “We must be acting like satellite dwellers on their first trip to New Terra.”
“As Solcensirian diplomats,” Munsford agreed, “I suppose we ought to do a better job of shaking the hayseed out of our hair.”
He wondered whether their cutaway coats, striped trousers and suede gloves, in contrast to the colorful and imaginative clothes of those all around them, weren’t contributing to their outlandish appearance.
Edgerton glanced down at his cane and spats. “Let’s face it, Andrew,” he said dispiritedly. “It’s going to be difficult to maintain any appreciable degree of dignity on Centralia.”
“Someday we’ll belong here, Bradley,” Munsford promised. “Someday Solcensirian representatives will circulate in Megalopolis with as much sophisticated indifference as the next Galactic citizen.”
There was a rending crash.
Munsford stared down over the edge of the landing terrace. Two passenger cars had collided on a ramp far below and had left a jumbled, twisted wreckage commingled with the almost-mutilated bodies of their occupants.
Traffic ground to a halt as an official vehicle swooped down from the heights and disgorged men and equipment. Crushed bodies were taken from the crumpled steel and laid on stretchers. The litters were covered with dome-shaped metal lids; dials were twisted momentarily, then the lids were removed.
Dazed casualties rose from the stretchers and walked unsteadily over to a waiting convalescent car.
“God!” Munsford marveled. “We couldn’t achieve that degree of medical technology in another ten thousand years!”
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Credit check, please.”
He turned. Facing him was a uniformed man with chitinous skin and curiously misplaced arms that seemed more like prehensile flippers.
“I beg your pardon,” Munsford said densely.
“Credit check—to see that no counterfeit certificates are in circulation,” the official explained, giving him a quick flash of a badge. “I’m a spot-check investigator for the Department of Authentic Monies.”
“Oh.” Munsford feigned comprehension. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got to inspect your currency. Let’s see your credits.”
He backed off a step. A device resembling a check-canceler on spindly legs materialized on the landing before him.
Munsford and Edgerton emptied their billfolds and handed over the credits Toveen had advanced them.
The inspector fed the bills into one end of the device. It clicked, mumbled and flipped them out the other, stacking and wrapping them. He handed the packages to the Solcensirian delegates. The machine purred gently, flashed a green light and vanished.
“Everything’s in order,” the official offered as he stepped onto the pedestrian strip. “Enjoy your stay.”
The mobile sidewalk whisked him out of sight.
“Say!” Munsford exclaimed. “You don’t suppose. . .?”
He looked suspiciously down at his packet of credits.
But Edgerton had already unwrapped his bundle. Discarding dignity for the moment, he swore and exhibited the sickeningly blank sheets of white paper.
Toveen strode from the building. He saw their expressions and glanced knowingly at the worthless slips. “Boys, you’ve been taken good.”
“Thief!” Edgerton shouted. “Police!”
“Won’t do you any good,” Toveen said. “They’ll just politely explain that civil protection doesn’t extend to nonregistrants. Come on, this is the Trade Compacts Building.”
* * * *
The clerk across the counter could hardly be called even humanoid. His predominant features were somewhat saurian, including reptilian eyes and thick-scaled hide.
“That’s correct,” he verified. “The Bureau of Trade Compacts supervises intercourse between the various systems and clusters.”
Edgerton was visibly relieved. “Then we do have the right place.”
He laid his cane and gloves on the counter. “Mr. Munsford and I represent a tri-stellar system composed of five worlds rich in vast reserves of silicon, carbon, potassium and ferric compounds. Among our exportable products are. . . .” He quickly warmed up to his subject.
Munsford, meanwhile, reflected with some concern over his disappointing experience with crime in Megalopolis. But then he chided himself on his gullibility. Of course he shouldn’t have been carried completely away with the shining veneer of the Galactic Community.
So crime hadn’t been entirely weeded out of the ultimate culture. So vestiges of it still existed. So what? From a universal standpoint, crime was nothing more than the prerogative of devious individual activity—nonconformity. And, as such, it must be an inevitable concomitant of intelligence.
Having thus rationalized the anachronism of vice in Utopia, Munsford found it easier to realign his philosophical sights on the finer facets of Galactic civilization —undreamed of science and technology, marvels of transportation and communication, the incredible degree of medical advance and—
“Yes, we’re quite proud of our cultural level,” the clerk suddenly interrupted Munsford’s thoughts. Munsford gulped. The clerk looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. But you were beaming out, and I was carried away with the intensity of your thought pattern. . . . Now, Mr. Edgerton, what were you saying?”
Munsford stared respectfully at the saurian, wondering how many Galactic races were telephatic. Then, as he studied the clerk more closely, it suddenly occurred to him that beneath the alien features he could sense the presence of incredible wisdom such as would accrue only to a species marvelously long-lived.
“All Galactic species are long-lived,” the Saurian explained. “But our longevity isn’t inherent. The life-span of the average newly-contacted candidate culture, we find, can be artificially increased at least ten times.”
Munsford felt humble and awed before the revelation. For himself, who had already lived the greater part of his life, it would probably mean little. But for his grandchildren—for the billions of young and newborn. . . .
“To begin with,” the clerk was telling Edgerton, “I must point out that all cargo will be subject to assessment in the amount of fifty-six per cent of value payable in Galactic currency or seventy-one per cent in commodities deliverable.”
Munsford started. “Fifty-six per cent! Seventy-one percent! That’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”
“Come now, sir. It costs a great deal to coordinate the life-stream of Galactic commerce, to administer the needs of ten thousand cultures.”
The Secretary of Commerce relaxed submissively. Of course, it must be expensive to run the Galaxy. Actually, it was ridiculous to think that he should have overlooked the possible existence of trade taxes and tariffs and charges for governmental services. Lord knows the costs were high enough for the administration of Solcensirian affairs!
The clerk rubbed his claws together. “Now, if you’ll let me see your certificates of registration and incorporation we’ll set the wheels in motion.”
Munsford backed off. “But that’s what we’re here for— to register and become incorporated into the Community!”
The saurian straightened indignantly. “I’m sorry,” he snapped. “There’s been a misunderstanding. We can’t process any compacts until you’re officially registered.”
Irritated, Edgerton fidgeted. “Look—we’ve been to five offices already!”
But the Secretary of Commerce accepted it philosophically. Naturally the official routine and exasperating delays would be proportionately magnified in comparison with the meager and primitive Solcensirian government. Yet, you’d imagine that with an administration as evolved as the Galactic Community’s in Megalopolis, some way would have been found to reduce the red tape.
“I’d suggest you get an early start in the morning,” the clerk proposed, “and try the Department of Contact, Survey and Recordation. That’s the normal avenue of entry.”
* * * *
The meal of delicacies from remote regions of the Galaxy was still a heavy feeling in his stomach as Munsford settled lethargically in a contour chair in the Transient Quarters’ recreation room.
Edgerton and Toveen strode across the lobby from the dining hall and dropped sluggishly into chairs on either side of him.
“You fellows certainly are stubborn about this registration business,” the old space trader offered phlegmatically. “If it’d been me, I’d have gone home long ago.”
The Secretary of Commerce glanced over at Toveen. “You don’t seem to be sold on Galactic culture. Why?”
The other shrugged. “Every man to his own taste, I always say. For me, it’s too complicated. When you boys pay me off for putting you in contact with Megalopolis, I’ll have what I’ve been looking for.”
“Are you sure,” Edgerton asked, “that you’ll be content with a subsidized estate on New Terra?”
“What more could I want?”
Even on the five Solcensirian worlds, Munsford realized, there was always the occasional misfit—the malcontent to whom civilized existence represented an endless succession of complications and impositions. Even on Terra there were those who withdrew to themselves and lived simple lives in the hinterlands. And New Terra would merely be Toveen’s hinterland.
Various walls of the recreation room had seemed to melt away and now they were like windows looking out on vast and magnificent scenes of other worlds. The dioramas were both weird and beautiful as they pictured settings of unimaginable variety.
Only then did Munsford begin to appreciate the scope of the Galactic Community and the miracles of executive processes that must be required to maintain order and calm.
He leaned toward Edgerton. “I’d certainly like to sit in on one of Megalopolis’ lawmaking sessions, wouldn’t you?” he asked, reverting to the Solcensirian tongue.
The Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs slumped in his chair and frowned. “I wonder if we could begin to understand their parliamentary procedure. It must be totally different from our concept of government.”
Munsford nodded soberly. “It would probably make the principles of our Constitution look like a savage tribe’s rules for headhunting.”
Edgerton shook his head wistfully. “Imagine the total elimination of pork-barrel politics. No wrangling over legislative rules. No sneak measures. No rider bills. No patronage maneuvers, spite legislation or partisan antics.”
The Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs sighed and rose. “We’d better turn in. With a little luck we might wind up our mission tomorrow.”
Munsford seized his arm. “Know something, Bradley? I’ve just about decided we’re not getting anywhere because our attitude is wrong. We’re suppliant, self-conscious, overwhelmed by the wonders all around us.”
He rose and meticulously straightened his cutaway, aligned the seams on his gloves. “We must remember our dignity and our rights. Whether they like it or not, Solcensirian culture is already part of the Galaxy. “They’ve got to accept us.”
Edgerton drew erect and waved his cane with determination. “By space! You’re right, Andrew! We’re duly authorized representatives of ten billion people. We—”
A tall, lean man with pale orange skin confronted them. “I beg your pardon. You wouldn’t know who I am, would you?”
Munsford eyed him severely. Back home, this was one of the stock approaches for a handout.
“No, we wouldn’t,” Edgerton said, also aloof. “Why should we, my good man?”
There was distress in the robed figure’s face. “I’ve got to find someone to identify me. I’ve mislaid my credentials; they won’t admit me before the Grand Council. And that’s the only chance I’ve got to keep them from talking our bill to death.
“Unless, perhaps,” he went on garrulously, “we can strike up a deal with the Popaldanian Cluster by supporting their measure for construction of six thousand new spaceports.”
“You’ve got to keep them from talking which bill to death?” Munsford asked, still wary of another swindle.
“The bill to prevent them from forcing twenty-foot spatial segregation on the Clarkians.”
Munsford squinted. “Who are the Clarkians and why would the Council want to segregate them?”
“A hundred and three trillion citizens of the Clark Cluster. We’re telepathically receptive over a twenty-foot distance. And I don’t think it’s fair. Why should I, the Prime Minister of a whole cluster, have to stand at least twenty feet away from you just because I can see, for instance, that you spent two weekends on an orbital yacht with a young lady a month before you were elected to your first public office?”
The Secretary of Commerce coughed explosively and his face flushed almost as crimson as Toveen’s. He glanced at Edgerton, then backed away from the Clarkian.
* * * *
Director D’Loon of the Department of Contact, Survey and Recordation was quite agitated. Twice Munsford’s height, he presented an awesome and imposing appearance as he paced in his office.
“Impossible!” he declared. “Utterly impossible!”
Munsford squirmed.
“One world we might have missed,” D’Loon continued vindictively. “But a veritable budding empire of five worlds—”
He left the thought hanging on a note of profound concern and dropped into his chair.
“I think I can clarify it,” Toveen offered. “Sol, Centauri and Sirius are in Sector Fourteen-Yellow.”
The Director’s face twitched with sudden comprehension. “The Backwash Area! But it was established thousands of years ago that every stellar body in Fourteen-Yellow is Larmanian Triple-Z in type—incapable of developing intelligent life of even the lowest order.”
“Quite obviously your survey was incomplete,” Edgerton said impatiently. “Now, will you consider our application?”
Sour-faced, the Director absently fingered miscellaneous articles on his desk. “Naturally we’ll have to. But just what the procedure will be, I don’t know. I should imagine there’ll have to be some sort of an interdepartmental hearing.”
More red tape. Munsford fought down a growing feeling of despair.
D’Loon’s hands made an explosive sound as they flopped down on his thighs. “We shall see. At any rate, I don’t want to lose track of you two. I’d hate to know there’s a burgeoning culture somewhere in the Backwash Area and have to spend three or four thousand years looking for it.”
“This hearing,” the Secretary of Commerce asked. “When will it be held?”
“As soon as possible.”
Munsford briefly contemplated months going by.
D’Loon smiled. “In the meantime you can be planning your official offering.”
Munsford stared at the Director. “Offering?”
“A customary courtesy extended to the Community by all neophyte cultures. You might look on it as an admission fee. It needn’t be much—say, twenty-five years’ output of your top ten commodities.”
Munsford glanced painfully at Edgerton and Toveen. The space trader’s smug expression was a reminder of his warning that things in the Greater Community were often complicated and frustrating.
“Who would ever have thought that Fourteen-Yellow would eventually produce?” D’Loon said abstractedly, rising. “Let me show you something.”
He led the way across the room to a huge metal door. Scintillating light flared out from the frame as he turned the knob.
Hesitatingly, the two diplomats and Toveen followed him through into a simply furnished room and out onto a veranda cloaked in the moist, dark stillness of night.
It was quite evident that they were no longer on Centralia. Overhead, an unimaginably dense splash of unfamiliar stars shone brilliantly—like a miniature galaxy.
“Apparently this is your first experience with the telemitter,” the giant D’Loon observed. Then he indicated the magnificent sweep of stars. “The Backwash Area, as seen from Taddolp VI, on the fringe of Sector Fourteen-Yellow. Seventy-four million suns and not a one of them worth a damn except yours.”
Munsford looked back enthralled at the veil of pulsating light that filled the inner doorway. From Centralia to God-only-knew how far away in the space of a single step! And, back in the Solcensirian sphere, travel from Terra to New Terra was still a matter of almost two years!
He was sure now it wouldn’t be difficult to convince the Solcensirian government that even fifty years’ production of their top ten commodities wouldn’t be too steep a price to pay for just one article of Galactic technology —the secret of the telemitter.
* * * *
Munsford and Edgerton were caught up in the fascination that was Megalopolis. So absorbed did they become in exploring the architectural wonders, the incredible scientific achievements, the dynamic and unimaginably developed culture, that they were like children in some impossibly fabulous fairyland.
And soon the Secretary of Commerce found himself wholly occupied in arranging the order of priority in which the features of the ultimate fairyland would become realities of the Solcensirian worlds. First, of course, they would have to have the telemitter. Next, the secret of longevity. Then a completely new repertory of medical techniques. And perhaps telekinetic ability could be acquired.
The list of marvels grew rapidly and reached imposing proportions so quickly that Munsford soon realized it would take a special commission of Solcensirian scientists years to absorb the magnificent technology of the Galactic Community.
The two diplomats were still expanding their list three days later when the courier from the Grand Council arrived at Transient Quarters with the summons.
He delivered it on a shining metal platter as a retinue of rigidly uniformed musicians trumpeted a fanfare and Council attendants unrolled a lush carpet on which they strode to the vehicular corridor. There a luxurious air car awaited.
They were whisked off, skimming the tallest spires of Megalopolis, while an escort of determined, smaller craft orbited around the larger ship with sirens screeching.
Munsford leaned back against the plush upholstery contentedly. Protocol had caught up with them. At last they were being accorded the formal courtesies due them as diplomatic representatives of ten billion potential citizens.
The flight to the hearing chamber was short since, ironically, the building to which they should have gone in the first place was less than a mile from the spaceport.
Another carpet was unfurled from the craft to the entrance and the trumpeters blasted their ears with a jubilant flourish as Munsford and Edgerton, heads high, strode amidst a cordon of dignitaries. Banners fluttered from cornices of the building; a band played a triumphal march, and thousands flanking the entrance cheered lustily.
Toveen arrived belatedly in an aircab and exhibited a congratulatory grin, indicating he would wait outside.
* * * *
The hearing chamber was cavernous, with an immense domed ceiling. Munsford and Edgerton were ushered to a dais and all around them government officials sat at great curving tables.
A most dignified elderly man in a flowing robe and with a noble mane of thick, white hair rose and a respectful hush fell over the assembly.
“Greetings,” he intoned gravely. “Through its President, the Grand Council extends a cordial welcome to you as representatives of your people. And we are pleased to announce official acceptance of Solcensir as the newest member of the Great and Cooperative Community.”
Munsford stood with head bowed and eyes closed. The Solcensirian worlds had made it. They were in.
What did it matter that they would have to pay the Bureau of Trade Compacts a fifty-six per cent assessment on cargo offered? Or that the five worlds would have to provide the Department of Contact, Survey and Recordation with an admission fee of twenty-five years’ production of their top ten commodities? Solcensir was in and that was all that mattered.
A haggard individual who looked almost human rose at the table designated “Department of Labor and Productive Statistics.”
“What is your population?” he asked.
“Ten billion,” Edgerton answered proudly.
“And the working force?”
Munsford raised a finger thoughtfully to his temple. “Why, about half of that, I should imagine.”
“Twenty per cent of which figures out to one billion. We shall expect you to make the selections and have them registered.”
Munsford frowned. “Registered for what?”
“Employment in Greater Community sub-bureaus and departments. Usually we require thirty-five per cent. But that’s after a century’s membership. The Community must be adequately represented on the constituent worlds, you know.”
Edgerton leaned forward suspiciously. “Who bears the cost? Who pays the wages?”
“The member worlds of course. You wouldn’t expect the Community to foot the bill for services you receive, would you?”
Munsford’s shoulders sagged. Fifty-six per cent of cargo offered he could explain. And he could even justify twenty-five years’ production of ten commodities. But this ...
“How soon can we send in an assessors’ team?” It was a diminutive, elflike man at the Property Department table who had posed the question.
Munsford swabbed his brow with a crisp handkerchief. “Assessment team? You don’t mean . . . ?”
“My dear sir, you are obligated to support the administration of the Galaxy to the extent of five per cent tax annually on all real and personal property.”
Munsford drew protestingly erect. “Now wait a minute. I—”
Someone rose at the Bureau of Better Breeds table. “Will next month be too early to send in a team of geneticists?”
The Secretary of Commerce’s mouth seemed to be hinged permanently open now and his handkerchief was quite moist.
“We expect total cooperation,” the official went on, “in elevating the Solcensirian population to Galactic standards.”
He approached the dais, alternately scrutinizing the two diplomats. His gaze eventually steadied on Munsford. “Offhand I’d say that if there are many of your general type, considerable culling will be in order.”
“Now see here! I—”
Edgerton gripped his arm. “Quiet, Andrew.”
The President confronted them. “Apparently you gentlemen haven’t been amply informed of the obligations which neophyte cultures are expected to assume once the Greater Community contacts them.”
“No, we haven’t,” Edgerton quickly confessed, pressing his handkerchief to his forehead. “But we are anxious to find out. And we will most certainly be eager to satisfy all requirements.”
Munsford stared protestingly at him. “But, Bradley! You don’t—”
“For God’s sake, Andrew,” the other whispered. “Shhh!”
Someone popped up at the Surface Configurations table. “We’ll expect you to supply accurate cartographic documents on the land masses of all planets in your system in order that we may coordinate a defense network.”
“And there’s the matter of the Galactic draft,” added a spokesman at the Manpower Mobilization table. “Your requirements in this department are ten per cent of all eligible males, five per cent of the females and two and a half per cent of the neuters, if any.”
“What’s all this about a defense network and draft?” Munsford blurted, dropping his handkerchief. “Is there a war going on?”
The President laughed. “Of course there isn’t. And we intend to see that it stays that way. But only total preparedness will discourage the Andromedans. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course we do,” the Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs said enthusiastically, winking at Munsford. “And we shall be honored to contribute our share.”
The Secretary of Commerce, finally catching on to Edgerton’s strategy, reiterated, “We certainly shall.”
The Defense Department spokesman was on his feet again. “Splendid. Then you’ll understand why we have to be ceded one-fourth of all land masses for fortification purposes.”
“But,” Edgerton asked solicitously, “you’ll let us provide for upkeep of the forces, won’t you?”
The official smiled. “Only to the extent of four-fifths of the cost. The Greater Community pays the rest.”
A familiar figure rose at the Department of Contact, Survey and Recordation table. “And now,” D’Loon asked eagerly, “where did you say the Solcensir Empire was located?”
“In the Backwash Area,” Munsford answered eagerly.
“We know that. But there are seventy-four million suns in that region. What are the exact coordinates of Sol, Centauri and Sirius?”
“Oh,” said Munsford innocently, “Toveen has that information. He found us, you know. We’ll have to get it from him. He’s outside now.”
Arm in arm, Munsford and the Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs started up the aisle.
The huge room settled down into a drone of casual conversation and the President leaned back in his chair, folding his arms patiently.
“We’ll be right back,” Edgerton called over his shoulder.
And Munsford added under his breath, “—like hell!”
* * * *
Centralia dwindled to a pea-sized disc, hidden in the brilliance of the backblast, as Toveen’s cargo ship slipped into the untraceable regions of hyperspace.
Suddenly concerned, the trader asked, “This hasn’t queered my chances for that estate on New Terra?”
“On the contrary,” Munsford reassured, “we’d like nothing better than to have you as a permanent guest. That way you won’t be likely to tell anybody where Solcensir is located.”
“But,” Edgerton quickly qualified, “you’ll have to include the ship in the deal.”
“Now, boys,” Toveen chided. “If I wanted to keep out from under the nose of the Contact Bureau, I wouldn’t go gadding about the Backwash Area on Cosmic Drive.”
Munsford straightened disdainfully. “After we get home this ship is going to go gadding unmanned and in only one direction—directly sunward.”
Toveen nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well, excuse me.”
* * * *
He engaged the autocontrol circuit, rose, stretched, glanced casually at the two diplomats; and stepped aft into his cabin.
He locked the door.
He listened for a second, then, satisfied, pulled a suitcase from under his bunk. He threw back its lid, exposing a metal chassis cluttered with electronic parts and knurled knobs.
“Toveen calling,” he said softly.
Pause.
“This is Toveen calling,” he said with some asperity.
There was a click and a whisper from the suitcase. Then a voice as soft as his own said, “Report, Toveen.”
“We’re leaving Andromeda now,” he whispered, one eye on the door. “We’re heading back for their own galaxy. They want to destroy this ship.”
Hesitation from the suitcase. “Well,” said the voice cautiously, “that is a problem. We won’t be able to come in and rescue you.”
“Rescue? Hell, I want to stay there. It ought to be an easy life. And, you know, looking at a galactic civilization through their eyes, I began to feel the way we wanted them to feel. I think I’ll like the quiet backwoods life on New Terra.”
The voice coughed warningly.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Toveen said easily, “I won’t say anything against our Andromedan civilization. Except, of course, to them. For them I’ll keep on dropping little hints about the fierce and unpredictable Andromedans.”
The voice cautioned: “Don’t overplay it, Toveen. We don’t want them getting second thoughts and deciding to join the mythical Galactic Federation after all. . . . Well, I guess this is good-by, Toveen. We’ll miss you.” The voice assumed a ritual chant. “In the name of the Andromedan people, you are commended on the successful completion of your mission. The three hundred and thirteenth Galactic culture has now been successfully indoctrinated to avoid attempts at making contact with other cultures, thus permitting us Andromedans to remain at peace. Your sacrifice has not been in vain. The people of the Andromedan systems wish you well.” And the voice clicked off.
Toveen, grinning widely, shut the lid, locked the suitcase and shoved it back under the bed. It was his only contact with his home civilization in the Andromedan nebula. He paused thoughtfully. Then, thinking of telepathic saurians and the ubiquitous con-men of the world where he had grown up, he took it out, opened the lid and picked up a hammer.
In half a minute, he had reduced it to powder, chuckling to himself all the while.