And Man would get them back. Even now, with his back to the wall, he dreamed not of survival, but of laying claim once again to his galactic birthright. Success wouldn't come as easily as it had in the heyday of the Republic, but it would be built more carefully this time, more solidly; it would be built to last as long as Man himself.
And Man planned to last a long, long time.
The first steps were simple: Man consolidated what holdings remained to him. Bit by bit he began
expanding again, but never did he move on to a new world or system until the last one was made secure. And always in Man's mind was the knowledge that pitted against him was an entire galaxy, a galaxy he had helped to unite in opposition to his claim upon it. It was a galaxy that, in whole or in part, still needed his trade, his science, his drive. But it was also a galaxy that was no longer playing by Man's ground rules.
Which, sighed Hermione, was whereshe came in. She flicked an intercom device beside her and spoke into it. “Much longer?” “About two more hours,” replied the pilot. “Are there any final orders concerning our approach?” “Not if our information was correct. As soon as we're close enough to see or sense what's going on, come to a dead stop.”
She turned back to the viewing screen. Somewhere up ahead was her destination, the site of a very minor little war between two very minor little races. And the powers-that-be on Deluros VIII (Earth had not been abandoned, but the bureaucracy had long since outgrown it) had decided that one or both races needed a friend. At least one thing Kipchoge Ngana had predicted two millennia ago had come to pass: Although Man's military and economic power was minimal compared to that portion of the galactic races that were arrayed against him, he was still the single most powerful race around. Which meant, of course, that as long as his relations with other races were on a one-to-one basis, he was usually able to call the shots.
Just under two hours later the pilot informed her that they were entering the system that housed the Ramorians’ home planet. Hermione sent for Commodore Lucius Barnes, her young, super-efficient military adviser. “Does our basic information check out?” she asked when he arrived. “Pretty much so,” replied Barnes. “Ramor is not too different from Earth: about ten percent smaller, slightly higher oxygen content, rotates on its axis once every nineteen hours, solar year seems to be about 322 days or thereabouts. Theoretically, at least, they speak Galactic-O.” That last was a relief. No single language could be accommodated by all the varied races of the galaxy, but great strides had been made in the field of communications, foremost of which were the development of Galactic O, C, M, G, and N, the letters standing for Oxygen, Chlorine, Methane, Guttural, and Nonclassifiable. Almost ninety-five percent of the sentient races breathed either oxygen, chlorine, or methane, and one couldn't expect a crystalline methane breather to be able to produce the same explosive sounds as a carbon-based oxygen-breather, and so on. So five forms of Galactic had been developed, and most of the races were capable of speaking in at least one of the variations. There never had been, and probably never would be, a translating mechanism that would instantaneously, or even slowly, translate the sense of every native language, but every galactic traveler possessed an incredibly miniaturized T-pack which could give immediate translations of Galactic. No more than one race in five even knew of the existence of the Galactic languages, but even that percentage made the traveler's work much easier.
“Can we assess the situation yet?” asked Hermione. “Yes, ma'am,” responded Barnes. “There are six planets in the system. Ramor itself has two moons, and the fifth planet, a giant, has eleven. Most of them are colonized, and our spectroscopic analysis indicates that all of them could be mined for iron and some of the rarer metals, which is probably the purpose of
the colonies. At this moment, the third and seventh moons of the fifth planet are under attack by what
seems to be a rather small expeditionary force.” “That would be the Teroni,” interposed Hermione. “What have we got on Teron, ma'am?”
“Chlorine-breathers. Teron is in the nearest star system, some two parsecs away. We once controlled the fourth planet from their sun, but never had any interest in Teron, which is the ninth planet. From what we've been able to determine, Teron and Ramor had an agreement that allowed Ramor to mine the second planet in Teron's system, while the Teroni were given mining rights to the moons of Ramor's fifth planet. We don't know exactly what happened next, but six years ago all mining forces were withdrawn, all embassies closed, and all diplomatic relations broken off. Since that time there have been a number of minor skirmishes between the two races, but no all-out war as yet.” “Why not?”
“The Teroni would ultimately win, but not without first absorbing some devastating losses.” “Then why are we in Ramor's system rather than Teron's?” asked Barnes. “Because,” said Hermione, “it would appear that Ramor is in greater need of a big brother with muscle. Neither system has been willing to trade with Man for centuries, and both have some agricultural goods and rare earths that we need. My orders, which are delightfully vague, are simply to open up a line of trade with one or both of them. How I do so is my own business.” “And have you any ideas based on what we know?” “Indeed I do,” said Hermione. “In your considered opinion, how do their military ships stack up to this one?”
“No contest,” came the quick reply. “According to our readout, it would take about twenty of them just to put a dent in us.”
“And you consider there to be little or no difference between the Ramorian ships and those of the Teroni?”
“In structure, they're totally different,” said Barnes. “In capabilities, they're two sides of the same coin.” “Now, as I understand it,” said Hermione, “the Teroni have a fleet of some fifty-five military ships, while the Ramorians have thirty-two.”
“In that case,” said Barnes, “neither has enough to adequately defend its own system against an all-out attack by the other. Sooner or later, one of the ships would have to get through.” “I agree,'’ said Hermione. “Which is why they've limited their skirmishes to the mining colonies. It seems to be an unspoken rule of the game that massive attacks and massive retaliations are to be avoided at all costs. Tell me: How many Teroni ships are in the area of the Ramorian moons right now?” “Sixteen that we've been able to spot; possibly one or two more.”
“That ought to be enough,” mused Hermione. Then: “Would you please open up a line of communication
with Ramor for me?'’
A few moments later she was conversing with a man who, if not the head of the Ramorian planetary government, was at least authorized to speak for that personage. “The shipHaiti , out of Deluros VIII, race of Man, bids you welcome,” said Hermione. “We bid theHaiti welcome,” came the reply, “and respectfully request its purpose.” “Too long have our races lived in mutual isolation,” said Hermione, being very careful that she allowed for no misinterpretation of her Galactic-O. “We humbly suggest that the time has come for our races to renew our brotherhood and open our space routes to free trade once again. As a gesture of our goodwill, we bear a cargo consisting of machines that will synthesize artificial fabrics, which we know that your miners will value highly. We ask nothing in return except the right of free trade with you.” “I am afraid that is out of the question,” replied the Ramorian. “Centuries ago our people had a taste of what free trade with Man means, and the memory of it still stings bitterly. You will not be molested, but you are forbidden to land on any world in our system. We appreciate your gesture of friendship, but we cannot and will not accept this or any other inducement to reopen any form of commerce with Deluros VIII or any other planet housing the race of Man.” Hermione cut the communication off, then turned to Barnes. “Ma'am?”