He waited, impatient in his seat, for the debate to wind on to its predetermined end. They would have to give in. But not yet.
Not until Dawson had finished demanding if this extension of mankind past the boundaries of the present sphere was financially wise; not until Wissiner was through questioning the wisdom of the negotiation; not until Croy had exhausted the objection that perhaps the aliens were expanding in the o ther direction; not until Klaus had finished suggesting in a veiled way that immediate war, and not negotiation, was the clearest course.
It went down the table that way, each man ridding himself of his private phantom, while the five spacemen, weary and travelworn, were treated to the unusual spectacle of watching Earth’s ruling oligarchy quarrel. At length the Geoarch said in his quavering, uncertain voice, “I call for the vote.”
The vote took place. Each Archon operated a concealed switch beneath his section of the table. To the right for support of the measure, to the left for opposition. Above the table, a gleaming globe registered the secret tally. White was the color of acceptance, black that of defeat. McKenzie was the first to throw his switch; a swirl of pure white danced in the mottled gray depths of the globe. An instant later a spear of black lanced through the white—Wissiner’s vote, McKenzie wondered?—and then another white, another black. Gray predominated, swirling inconclusively. The hue leaned now toward the white, now to the black. Sweat beaded the Technarch’s forehead. The color grew light as votes were shifted.
At last the globe displayed the pure white of unanimity. The Geoarch said, “The proposal is approved. Technarch McKenzie will prepare plans for negotiating mission and present them to us for our approval. This meeting is adjourned until reconvened by the Technarch.”
Rising, McKenzie made his way down from the dais and walked toward the five spacemen muttering uncertainly to each other in the center of the room. As he approached, one of them—it was Peterszoon, the big blonde—glared at him with an expression of unmistakable hatred.
“May we go now, Excellency?” Laurance asked, obviously keeping himself under tight leash.
“One moment. I’d like to have a word.”
“Of course, Excellency.”
McKenzie forced his grave features to contort into the unfamiliar pattern of a smile. “I didn’t come over to apologize; but I want to say that I know you boys deserve a vacation, and I’m sorry you can’t have one yet. Earth needs you to take that ship out. You’re the best we have; that’s why you have to go.”
He eyed the five of them—Laurance, Peterszoon, Nakamura, Clive, Hernandez. Half-throttled anger smouldered in their eyes. They were defiant; they had every reason to be. But they could see beyond their own momentary rage.
Laurance said, in his slow, deliberate way, “We’ll have a day or two, won’t we?”
“At least that much,” the Technarch said. “But as soon as the negotiators are gathered, you’ll have to go.”
“How many men will you pick? The ship can’t hold much more than nine or ten.”
“I won’t name many men. A linguist, a diplomat, a couple of biophysicists and sociologists. You’ll have enough room.” The technarch smiled again; “I know it’s a lousy trick to send you out on another trip right after you’ve come back. But I know you understand. And—if it’s worth anything to you—you’ll have a Technarch’s gratitude for going.” It was as far as McKenzie could lower himself toward being an ordinary human being. The smile slowly left his face, and he nodded a stiff salute and turned away. Laurance and his men would go. Now to pick the negotiating team.
THREE
Dr. Martin Bernard was at his ease, that evening, in his South Kensington flat just off the Cromwell Road. Outside his window drifted London’s murky Sixmonth fog; but Martin Bernard took no notice of that. His windows were opaqued; within the flat, all was cozy, warm, and snug, as he liked it. Ancient music tinkled softly down from the overhead sonic screen: Bach, it was, a harpischord piece. He had the volume control set for minimal audibility, just above the hearing threshold. That way, the Bach made no demands on his attention, but he sensed its presence, gay and lilting.
Bernard lay sprawled in his vibrochair, cradling a volume of Yeats on his lap while the shoulder-lamp wriggled unhappily in its attempt to keep the beam focussed on the page no matter how Bernard might alter his position. A flask of rare brandy, twenty years old, imported from one of the Procyon worlds, was within easy reach. Bernard had his drink, his music, his poetry, his warmth. What better way, he asked himself, to relax after spending two hours trying to pound the essentials of sociometrics into the heads of an obtuse clump of sophomores?
Even as he relaxed, he felt a twinge of guilt at his comfort. Academic people were not generally thought of as sybarites, but he told himself that he deserved this comfort. He was the top man in his field. He had, besides, written a successful novel. His poems were highly esteemed and anthologized. He had struggled hard for his present acclaim; now, at forty-three, with the problem of money solved forever and the problem of his second marriage equally neatly disposed of, there was no reason why he should not spend his evenings in this luxurious solitude.
He smiled. Katha had divorced him: mental cruelty, she had charged, though Bernard thought of himself as one of the least cruel persons who had ever lived. It was simply that his teaching and his writing and his own studies had left him with no time for his wife. She had divorced him; so be it. He realized now, two marriages too late, that he had not really been the marrying sort at all.
He leaned back, thumbing through Yeats. A wonderful poet, Bernard thought; perhaps the best of the Late Medievals. That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born and dies. Caught in that …
The phone chimed, shattering the flow. Bernard scowled and elbowed himself to a sitting position; putting down the book, he crossed to the phone cabinet and thumbed the go-ahead button. He had never had an extension rigged that would allow him to answer the phone without getting up. He was not yet sybarite enough to carry on his conversations while flat on his back.
The screen brightened; but instead of a face, the image of the Technarch’s coat-of-arms appeared. Frowning, Bernard stared at the yellow and blue emblem.
An impersonal voice said, “Dr. Martin Bernard?”
“That’s right.”
“Technarch McKenzie wished to speak to you. Are you alone?”
“Yes. I’m alone.”
“Please apply unscrambler.”
Bernard lowered the toggle at the side of the phone. A moment later, the coat-of-arms gave way to the head and shoulders of the Technarch himself. Bernard stared levelly at the strong, blocky-featured face of McKenzie. He and the Technarch had met only a few times; McKenzie had decorated him with the Order of Merit seven years back, and since then they had crossed paths at several formal scientific functions. But he had heard the Technarch’s familiar booming voice on hundreds of state occasions. Now, Bernard inclined his head respectfully and said, “Hearkening, Technarch.”
“Good evening, Dr. Bernard. Something unusual has arisen. I think you can help me—help us all.”
“If it’s possible for me to serve, Technarch…”
“It is. We’ve sent an experimental faster-than-light ship out, Dr. Bernard. It reached a system ten thousand light-years away. Intelligent colony-building aliens were discovered. We have to negotiate a treaty with them. I want you to head the negotiating team.”