“It’s a tape,” Marshall murmured. “They’ve got the ends looped together and it’s going to keep repeating indefinitely.”
“Let’s monitor it for a while,” Wharton said.
They monitored it. After the tenth successive repetition he ordered the signalman to shut down. Nothing was going to be gained through radio ultimatums, obviously. The Havilanu simply would not listen. The only thing to do, clearly, was to send an emissary over to the alien ship to explain things in person. And if that didn’t work—
Other steps would be necessary. “Sound a Red Alert,” Wharton said. “We’d better start getting this place tightened up for battle. Just in case,” he added. “Just in case.”
The thirty-seven men of the Bartlett V outpost occupied their battle stations with obvious relish. To most of them, an alien invasion—even an invasion by only one ship—was a pleasant diversion indeed, for men serving a three-year hitch on an empty planet a thousand light-years from home. The break from the usual routine of observation and report-filing was more than welcome.
Colonel Wharton shared none of their delight, though. He was old enough to remember what war was like—as a raw recruit in 2716 he had taken part in the mop-up activities of the Terra-Dormiran conflict, just over a hundred years before. There hadn’t been war in the galaxy since. And, inasmuch as there wasn’t a man in his outfit older than ninety, none of his men had any real idea of what a galactic war was like. Ships splitting open in midspace like gaffed fish, whole continents leveled in scorched-earth campaigns, an entire generation of young men practically wiped out—-no, there was nothing nice about war, from any angle. But maybe a century of peace had caused galactic complacence. Certainly no alien ship would have dared make a landing like this in the last century, Wharton thought. And who could have imagined such a reply to an ultimatum from a Terran commanding officer?
The worst part of the situation was that the responsibility was all his. The quickest subradio message to Earth would take a month to arrive; a month more would be needed for a reply. If he waited, Terra’s territorial integrity could have been violated a dozen times over. So the buck ended with Colonel Wharton. If the Halivanu insisted on remaining, he could choose between blasting them off the planet and probably starting a war, or letting them stay and thereby issuing an open invitation to the entire universe to come trespass on Terran worlds. It wasn’t a pretty choice. But there was no one he could go to for advice except men of his own rank, on other outpost worlds, and it was senseless to do that. He would have to make his own decisions.
Breckenridge came up to him as he stood observing the conversion of the outpost to a fort. The post was amply armed, and Wharton held regular artillery drills. But he had never dreamed he would actually be ordering a Red Alert out here on this relatively nonstrategic world.
“Sir?”
“What is it, Breckenridge?”
“I’d like to volunteer for the job of going to see the Halivanu, sir. I think I’m the best fitted man for talking to them.”
Wharton nodded. Breckenridge had been his choice; but the man had made matters simpler by volunteering. “Accepted, captain. Order Smithson to break out a jetsled for you. You’ll leave at once.”
“Any special instructions?”
“Repeat that ultimatum to them, as a starter. Make it clear that we’re automatically bound to blast them down if they don’t get off here in a couple of hours. Get the point across that we can’t help ourselves, that it’s our job to destroy any alien ships that make unauthorized landings, and that therefore the responsibility for starting a possible war is all theirs.”
“I’ve got it, sir.”
“Good. Don’t bluster, don’t threaten—just convince them that our hands are tied. Make them see the pickle we’re in. I don’t want to shoot at them, but I will if I have to—and I’ll have to if they stay here. Tell them they can make all the solar observations they want if they’ll only go through the proper channels.”
Breckenridge nodded. There were beads of sweat on his face. He looked troubled.
Wharton said, “You don’t have to volunteer for this, captain. There are other men I could send if—”
“It’s my job. I’m not withdrawing.”
“You’re worried about those crazy stories you’ve heard, Breckenridge. I can almost read your mind.”
“The stories are… nothing but stories, sir,” Breckenridge said stolidly. “Just so much jetwash. May I leave, now, sir?”
Wharton smiled. “You’re a good man, Breckenridge. Dismissed.”
By jetsled it would take more than an hour for Breckenridge to reach the alien spaceship; allow him half an hour for parleying, Wharton thought, and an hour or so to return. Make it three hours round trip. So if Breckenridge were successful, the Halivanu ship would be blasting off about the same time that Breckenridge returned to base. If, Wharton thought. He stood for nearly half an hour in front of the radar screen, staring at the white blip that represented the Halivanu ship a hundred twenty miles away, and at the tiny white bug racing northeast across the screen that was the reflected image of Breckenridge’s sled.
Then he walked away and tried to busy himself in routine activities. But his mind kept going back to the Halivanu incident. He felt very tired. There was nothing he wanted to do more than crawl into the Deepsleep tank and let the cool therapeutic fluids wash over him.
Wharton reminded himself forcibly that he had already taken his Deepsleep time for the day. He rationed it strictly, one session and no more per diem. Which meant he’d have to stay on his pins unaided.
The afternoon shadows lengthened. Bartlett V was a moonless world, and night fell fast. The little sun was dipping rapidly toward the horizon, casting an orange light over the empty, barren plains. The radar screen showed that Breckenridge was now on his way back.
He returned four hours after he had departed. The screen still showed the Halivanu ship on the plateau. The linguist reported immediately to Colonel Wharton.
“Well?”
Breckenridge smiled wanly. “It’s all arranged, sir. They’ll be leaving next week, as soon as they’ve completed their observations.”
Wharton sat down abruptly. “What did you say?”
“I agreed to let them stay, sir.”
Wharton felt as though he’d been tomahawked. In a rigidly controlled voice he said, “You agreed to let them stay, Breckenridge? How polite of you! But I thought I sent you there to deliver an ultimatum—not to make agreements.”
“Of course, sir. But I discussed it with them and we agreed it would be unreasonable to drive them away before they had finished their observations. They clearly don’t mean any harm. They’re not even carrying armaments, sir.”
“Breckenridge, are you out of your head?” Wharton asked, aghast.
“Sir?”
“How can you stand there and talk such drivel to me? Your opinion of their harmlessness is irrelevant, and you know it. You were sent bearing an ultimatum. I wanted their reply.”
“But we talked it over, sir. It can’t hurt us to make a little concession like this.”
“Breckenridge, did those aliens drug you ? You’re talking like a madman. What right did you have—”
“You said yourself that you would rather give in and let them stay than start a war, sir. And since they insisted on staying, I followed your instructions and told them it would be O. K., provided they left when—”
“Followed my instructions?” Wharton roared. His hand drummed menacingly on the desk top. “When did you ever hear me say such a thing?”
“Why, just before I left,” Breckenridge said innocently.