Certainty
By Robert Silverberg
Wharton said, “How long ago was this picture taken?”
“About an hour, sir. But you were in Deepsleep, and we didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think,” Wharton said acidly. “O. K., let’s have the rest of the story. You sent warnings to the ship, I hope.”
Crosley nodded. “We beamed them wide-channel in Terran, General Galactic, Dormirani, Leesor, and Fawd. We sent the same message in each language: telling them that this is a Terran observation outpost, that they can’t land here without prior permission, that they would have to depart at once, By this time they had completed their landing. We estimate their position at about one hundred twenty miles northeast of here, on the Creston Plateau.”
“And did you get an answer?”
“A few minutes ago. It was in what Breckenridge says is a Fawdese dialect. They said, in effect, that they didn’t recognize Terran sovereignty over this planet, for one thing, and for another they had come here to make certain scientific observations. They said they’d leave here in a week or two, after they’ve completed their observations.”
“To which you made what reply?” Wharton said.
Crosley shook his head. “None, sir. I got word that you were coming out of Deepsleep, and so…”
“…And so you passed the buck to me. All right, lieutenant. In your position I’d have done the same thing. Get me Breckenridge.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Crosley performed a smart little salute and about-faced. Alone, Wharton shook his big, shaggy head sadly. This was what came of a century of unbroken Galactic peace. Youngsters like Crosley didn’t even know what war meant. And a bunch of aliens thought it could put down on a Terran outpost planet without as much as a by-your-leave. Wharton sighed, feeling his age, admitting to himself that he had hoped to serve out his last few years without incident. He was getting close to the hundred-twenty-five-year mark; mandatory retirement came at age one hundred thirty. And only an hour and a half of Deepsleep every day kept him going now. Well, there was going to be an incident, now, whether he liked it or not. Colonel Wharton straightened his shoulders.
Captain Breckenridge entered the room. The linguistics man was short and stocky, with choppy, irregular features and stubby red hair. “Sir?”
“Breckenridge, you say this alien ship spoke to you in Fawd?”
“A Fawdese dialect, sir.”
“That’s what I’m getting after. Where is that ship from? The Fawd Confederacy knows better than to plonk a ship down on Terran property. Unless the Fawds are looking to provoke a war, that is.”
Breckenridge said, “Oh, these aren’t Fawds, sir. They simply speak a Fawdese dialect. Plenty of peoples in the Fawdese sector speak Fawd without belonging to the Confederacy.”
“You’re stating the obvious,” Wharton said irritably. “I want to know where these people are from.”
“The best I can give is an educated guess.”
“Well?”
“They come from the western tip of the Fawdese lingual sector. That’s plain from their shifted vowels. There are three Fawdese-speaking races out that way: the Cyross, the Halivanu, and the Dortmuni.” Breckenridge ticked them off on his fingers. “The Cyross aren’t a technological people. They wouldn’t be sending ships this far for centuries. The Dortmuni are passive-resistance nonbelligerents. They wouldn’t be looking for trouble either. That leaves the Halivanu as the likely senders of that ship up on the plateau. You know, of course, the legends about the Halivanu—”
“Just legends. That’s all they are.”
“They’ve been documented pretty well. It’s been proven that—”
“Nothing’s been proven, Breckenridge! Hear me? Nothing has been proven about the Halivanu.” Wharton rose, gripping the edges of his desk. He realized that his legs were quivering. Just to hammer the point across, he said, “I’m not interested in hearing about any strange powers the Halivanu may be thought to have. I’m interested only in getting them off this planet, and getting them off fast. Come on across to the signal room with me. I’ll send these Halivanu packing right now.”
There were all sorts of legends about the Halivanu, Wharton admitted dourly to himself as he and Breckenridge crossed the clearing and entered the outpost’s communications room. Spacemen venturing into the Fawdese sector had brought back stories about mental vampires that could suck a man’s mind dry, and similar gory tales. But nothing had ever been proven. The Halivanu were introverted humanoids who had little to do with the rest of the universe, keeping to themselves and seeking no outside contacts. Eerie legends always sprang up about recluses, Wharton thought. He shrugged away his uneasiness. His job was to protect the integrity of the boundaries of the Terran sphere, boundaries which these Halivanu—if they were Halivanu—were clearly transgressing.
“Set up contact with that ship,” Wharton ordered.
Signalman Marshal acknowledged and began turning dials. After a few moments he looked up and said, “I can’t get them to recognize me, sir.”
“That’s all right. They’ll be listening, never worry. Breckenridge, you’re better at this dialect business than I’d be. Pick up the mike and tell them that they’re trespassing on Terran ground, and that they have exactly… ah, make it three hours… three hours to blast off. Otherwise we’ll be compelled to treat their landing as an act of war.”
Nodding, Breckinridge began to speak. Wharton found that he could understand most of what was being said; he knew the basic Fawd tongue, of course, since it was one of the live great root-languages of the galaxy, and the Halivanu language differed from Fawd only in a broadening of the vowels, minor grammatical simplifications, and inevitable vocabulary shifts.
There was silence for a full minute after Breckenridge had finished.
“Repeat it,” Wharton said.
Breckenridge recited the ultimatum a second time. Again, the only response was silence. Nearly two minutes ticked by; fidgeting, Wharton was on the verge of ordering yet another repeat when the speaker sputtered and emitted, in a dry, rasping tone, the word, “Eritomor—”
It was the Fawdese for “Earthmen.” A moment later came more Fawdese words, spoken slowly and carefully. Wharton’s face went steely as he listened. The Halivanu spokesman was explaining politely that since the Free World of Halivanth did not recognize the Terran claim to this uninhabited world, there was no reason why the Halivanu ship should leave. However, the Halivanu had no desire to claim the planet for themselves, but they simply wished to carry out certain solar observations over a period of some nine or ten Galactic Standards days, after which time they would be glad to depart.
At the conclusion of the statement, Breckenridge said, “They declare that they don’t recognize our claim and—”
Wharton shut him up with an impatient gesture. “I understood the message, lieutenant.” He picked up the microphone himself and said, in halting Fawdese, “This is Colonel Dean Wharton speaking. If you want to make solar observations here, you’ll have to clear it through regular diplomatic channels. I’m not authorized to grant any landings. And so I have to request that you—”
He was interrupted by a voice from the speaker. “Eritomor… vor held d’chayku kon derinilak—”
It was the same speech the Havilanu spokesman had delivered before, repeated in the same slow, flat tone, as though spoken to a wayward child. Annoyed, Wharton waited till the Havilanu was finished, and tried to speak again. But he got no more than a few words out before the Havilanu reply started for the third time.