“Transfer operates at a thousand times the distance, at a thousandth the cost in energy,” Pnotl continued. “This is because so much less actually has to be transmitted. Only the Kirlian ambiance moves; the body is left behind. It is my Kirlian force alone that animates this body—and it will quickly fade if I do not return to my own body, which is quite alien in comparison. Thus transfer is by no means a substitute for matter transmission, or even for physical travel through space. It is merely our most economical means of communication over galactic distances. And though it is a million times as efficient as matter transmission, it can still be costly in energy.”
The Minister of Technology nodded. That was the great liability of mattermission: its cost. A million dollars’ worth of energy had to be expended to transmit a hundred pounds one light-year, approximately. In fact, that had become the practical definition of the modern dollar. The expense cubed as the distance squared, so that it cost a billion dollars to transmit that same mass ten light-years and a trillion dollars to move it a hundred light-years. Consequently very little freight was shipped that way; most mattermissions consisted of microscopic coded message capsules. It was still an essential means of maintaining Imperial communications.
Transfer, at a millionth the effective cost, would still have to be used sparingly, if it were not to deplete the Imperial exchequer. But it would lay open the entire galaxy to human contact, and the benefits could be enormous. For if there was one thing more valuable than energy, it was knowledge.
“The threat is linked to this,” Pnotl said. “The civilization of another galaxy proposes to solve its own energy problem by draining off the fundamental energies of the Milky Way Galaxy. I speak of the atomic interactions themselves, and the force of gravity. I think you will appreciate what would happen to us all if these forces were weakened.”
“Disaster!” the Minister of Technology said immediately. “Our whole framework would disintegrate.”
“But how—?” the Regent inquired, always practical.
“Apparently they have rediscovered some of the science of the Ancients,” Pnotl said. “They are using the bodies of local galactic species to build and operate enormous power-transfer stations.”
“Transfer of energy?” the Minister of Technology asked, amazed. “I didn’t know that was possible.”
“We did not know either,” Pnotl admitted. “It seems there are ramifications of transfer technique we have yet to master. It may be that some forms of energy possess Kirlian fields. As I pointed out, the threat is fundamentally connected to transfer.”
“We must make a special search for more Ancient artifacts!” the Minister of Technology exclaimed.
“In short,” Pnotl concluded, “we are about to be ravaged by Galaxy Andromeda. If we do not act immediately, we all shall perish.”
“Exactly what sort of assistance do you expect from us?” the Regent inquired, shaken despite his cynicism.
“Merely to use your power of transfer to contact your neighbors and bring them into the coalition. You will freely relay the transfer technology to them. They will then patrol their own regions, destroying any Andromedan stations and agents discovered. Galactic vigilance is the price we all must pay for survival.”
“We have to do the dirty work you balk at,” the Regent said. “That is your real price.”
Pnotl nodded. “Unkindly put, but accurate enough. We must concentrate our own major effort in our own region of space. If you can reach ten or twenty Spheres within a radius of two thousand light-years of Sol, it will suffice. Our own sweep will complement yours tangentially, for Sphere Knyfh is covering a radius of three thousand light-years. All over the galaxy the other major Spheres are performing similarly.” The alien made a bow of dismissal. “If you will now convey me to your technicians, I shall begin working with them immediately. It may take some time to clarify the specifics and construct the apparatus, and my time is limited.”
The alien smiled, and several Ministers smiled with him. He was speaking the literal truth; he had at most eighty days before his identity became submerged within the ambiance of the human host. It would have to be a terrific effort, on his part and theirs.
“But we haven’t even agreed!” the Regent protested.
Pnotl’s glance hinted that he thought the Council to be a bunch of unlettered idiots, but his tone was controlled. “Since your survival, like ours, depends on the early unification of our galaxy, so that we may muster our entire resources to combat this menace, I believe your agreement is assured. But I shall give you the information regardless—just as you will have to give it to other Spheres, however negative they may prove to be.”
The Regent gestured, and the Minister of Technology conducted the alien out of the audience chamber.
“We seem to have been committed,” the Regent remarked sourly. “But if he really delivers transfer…”
The Minister of Population produced a printout. “Assuming that we have a use for it, I have here the list of our top prospects for transfer. As you know, the strength of the Kirlian field is the overriding factor—”
“We know!” the Regent interrupted. “Summon the top five prospects. I want them here within twenty-four hours.”
“That will be awkward. Our leading name is on the Fringe.”
The Regent bashed one fist into the opposite hand. “I don’t care if it’s as far as Outworld! Fetch it here!”
The Minister permitted himself a fleeting smile. “It is on Outworld. Star Etamin, one hundred and eight light-years distant. Our farthest viable colony.”
“The Stone Age planet!” the Minister of Culture exclaimed. “Disaster!”
“We’ll have to use the second choice, that’s all,” the Minister of Alien Spheres said. “Where’s that one?”
“Sirius.” Again a small smile.
“That’s close—and civilized! Saves us ninety-nine light-years’ postage. Much better.”
The Minister of Population shook his head. “It’s a woman.”
There was a general, discreet groan. The cultural prejudices of the Ministers were emerging in the absence of the alien envoy. “Worse yet!” the Minister of Culture said.
“Stop this bickering!” the Regent cried. “Bring them both—and the next three. I’ll decide when the time comes.”
“But the expense!” the Minister of Finance cried, appalled.
The others ignored him; expense was irrelevant when the Regent gave an order. If he overreached himself, he would have to answer to the Emperor, whereupon there just might be a new Regent. This particular Regent was unusually competent, and therefore it was likely that his tenure in the office would be brief.
“What’s the top name?” the Minister of Alien Spheres asked. The arrival of the envoy from Sphere Knyfh had enhanced his prestige of the hour considerably, and he spoke with a new timbre of authority.
“Flint. Flint of Outworld. Age two-thirds—”
“What?” the Minister of Culture squawked.
“Sorry. Their year is thirty years long; I forgot to interpolate. Age about twenty-one. Male. Single. Heterosexually inclined. Intelligence about one point five.”
“About?” the Minister of Culture demanded. “Can’t you measure it accurately?” His tone reeked of contempt.
“No. He’s a primitive—like some here. Can’t even read. Runs about naked. Has green skin. But he’s smart—very smart.”