“Now, just let me do the talking, Bayard,” Dzok said, hurrying me toward a stairwell. “I’ll present your case to our Council in the most favorable light, and I’m confident there’ll be no trouble. You should be on your way home in a matter of hours.”
“I hope your Council is a little less race-minded than the yokels down below—” I started, then broke off, staring at a camouflaged cage where a hairless, tailless biped, two-feet tall, with a low forehead, snouted face and sparse beard stared out at me with dull eyes.
“My God!” I said. “That’s a man—a midget—”
Dzok turned sharply. “Eh? What?” He gaped, then grinned. “Oh, good Lord, Bayard, it’s merely a tonquil! Most amusing little creature, but hardly human—”
The little manikin stirred, made a plaintive noise. I went on then, feeling a mixture of emotions, none of which added to my confidence.
We descended the escalator, went along a wide, cool corridor to a glass door, on into a wide skylighted room with a pool, grass, tables, and a row of lockers at the far side. Dzok went to a wall screen, talked urgently, then turned to me.
“All set,” he told me. “Council’s in session now, and will review the case.”
“That’s fast action,” I said. “I was afraid I’d have to spend a week filling out forms and then sweat out a spot on the calendar.”
“Not here,” Dzok said loftily. “It’s a matter of pride for local Councils to keep their dockets clear.”
“Local Council? I thought we were going to see the big wheels. I need to make my pitch to the top level—”
“This is the top level. They’re perfectly capable of evaluating a situation, making a sound decision, and issuing appropriate orders.” He glanced at a wall scale which I assumed was a clock.
“We have half an hour. We’ll take a few moments to freshen up, change of clothes and all that. I’m afraid we still smell of the Hagroon prison.”
There were a few other customers in the room, lanky, sleek Xonijeelians who stroked to the length of the pool or reclined in lounge chairs. They stared curiously as we passed. Dzok spoke to one or two, but didn’t linger to chat. At the lockers, he pressed buttons, used an attached tape to measure me, worked a lever. A flat package popped out from a wide slot.
“A clean outfit, Bayard—not exactly what you’ve been used to, but I think you’ll find it comfortable—and frankly, the familiar garments may- be a help in overcoming any initial—ah—distaste the Council Members may feel.”
“Swell,” I muttered. “Too bad I left my ape suit. I could come as a Hagroon.”
Dzok tutted and selected clothing for himself, then led me into a shower room where jets of warm, perfumed water came from orifices in the domed ceiling. We stripped and soaped down, Dzok achieving a remarkable lather, then air-dried in the dressing room. My new clothes—a pantaloon and jacket outfit in blue and silver satin with soft leather-like shoes and white silk shirt—fitted me passably. Dzok snickered, watching me comb my hair. I think he considered it hardly worth the effort. He gave the mirror a last glance, settled his new gold-braided white pillbox cap on his round head, fitted the scarlet chin strap under his lower lip, gave the tight-fitting tunic a last tug. “Not often an agent returns from the field with a report he’d justified in classifying Class Two Sub-Emergency,” he said in a satisfied tone.
“What’s the emergency? Me or the Hagroon slave-runners?”
Dzok laughed—a bit uneasily, perhaps. “Now, now, don’t be anxious, Bayard. I’m sure the Councillors will recognize the unusual nature of your case…”
I followed him back into the corridor, thinking that one over.
“Suppose I were a ‘usual’ case, what then?”
“Well, of course, Authority policy would govern in that instance. But—”
“And what would Authority policy dictate?” I persisted.
“Let’s just wait and deal with the situation as it develops, eh?” Dzok hurried ahead, leaving me with an unpleasant feeling that his self-confidence was waning the closer we came to the huge red-gilt doors that blocked the wide corridor ahead.
Two sharp sentries in silver-trimmed white snapped to as we came up. Dzok exchanged a few words with them. Then one thumbed a control and the portals swung open. Dzok took a deep breath, waiting for me to come up. Beyond him I saw a long table behind which sat a row of faces—mostly australopithecines, but with representatives of at least three other types of Man, all with grey or grizzled heads, some in red-ornamented whites, a few in colorful civvies.
“Stiff upper lip, that’s the drill,” Dzok muttered. “To my left and half a pace back. Follow my lead on protocol…” Then he stepped off toward the waiting elders. I adjusted a nonviolent, uncompetitive look on my face and followed. A dozen pairs of yellow eyes watched me approach; twelve expressions faced me across the polished table of black wood—and none of them were warm smiles of welcome. A narrow-faced grey-beard to the left of center made a smacking noise with his mobile lips, leaned to mutter something to the councillor on his left. Dzok halted, executed a half-bow with a bending of the knees, spoke briefly in his staccato language, then indicated me.
“I introduce to the Council one Bayard, native to the Anglic Sector,” he said, switching to English. “As you see, a sapiens—”
“Where did you capture it?” the thin-faced member rapped out in a high, irritable voice.
“Bayard is not… ah… precisely a captive. Excellency,” Dzok started.
“Are you saying the creature forced its way here?”
“You may ignore that question, Agent,” a round-faced councillor spoke up from the right. “Councillor Sphogeel is venting his bias in rhetoric. However, your statement requires clarification.”
“You’re aware of Authority policy with regard to bald anthropoids, Agent?” another put in.
“The circumstances under which I encountered Bayard were unusual,” Dzok said smoothly. “It was only with his cooperation and assistance that I escaped prolonged imprisonment. My report—”
“Imprisonment? An Agent of the Authority?”
“I think we’d better hear the Agent’s full report—at once,” the councillor who had interrupted Sphogeel said, then added a remark in Xonijeelian. Dzok replied in kind at some length, with considerable waving of his long arms. I stood silently at his left and a half pace to the rear as instructed, feeling like a second hand bargain up for sale, with no takers.
The councillors fired questions then, which Dzok fielded crisply, sweating all the while. Old Sphogeel’s expression failed to sweeten as the hearing went on. Finally the round-faced councillor waved a long-fingered, greyish hand, fixed his gaze on me.
“Now, Bayard, Agent Dzok has told us of the circumstances under which you placed yourself in his custody—”
“I doubt very much that Dzok told you any such thing,” I cut him off abruptly. “I’m here by invitation, as a representative of my government.”
“Is the Council to be subjected to impertinence?” Sphogeel demanded shrilly. “You speak when ordered to do so, sapiens—and keep a civil tongue in your head!”
“And I’m also sure,” I bored on, “that his report included mention of the fact that I’m in need of immediate transportation back to my home line.”
“Your needs are hardly of interest to this body,” Sphogeel snapped. “We know quite well how to deal with your kind.”
“You don’t know anything about my kind!” I came back at him. “There’s been no previous contact between our respective governments—”
“There is only one government, sapiens!” Sphogeel cut me off. “As for your kind…” His long, flexible upper lip was curled back, showing shocking pink gums and lots of teeth, in a sneer like that of an annoyed horse. “…we’re familiar enough with your record of mayhem—”