The short, punchy sentences left Bernard dizzy. He followed the Technarch from one startling statement to the next; the final sentence landed with the impact of a blow.
“You want—me—to head the negotiating team?” Bernard repeated dazedly.
“You’ll be accompanied by three other negotiators and a crew of five. The crew is ready; I’m still waiting acceptance from some of the others. Departure will be immediate. The transit time is negligible. The period of negotiation can be as brief as you can make it. You could be back on Earth in less than a month.”
Bernard felt an instant of vertigo. All seemed swallowed up: the book of poetry, the brandy, the warmth, the snugness— all punctured in a moment by this transatlantic call.
He said in a hesitant voice, “Why—why am I picked for this assignment?”
“Because you’re the best of your profession,” replied the Technarch simply. “Can you free yourself of commitments for the next several weeks?”
“I—suppose so.”
“I have your acceptance, then, Dr. Bernard?”
“I—yes, Excellency. I accept.”
“Your service will not go unrewarded. Report to Archonate Center as soon as is convenient, Doctor—and no later than tomorrow evening New York time. You have my deepest gratitude, Dr. Bernard.”
The screen went blank.
Bernard gaped at the contracting dot of light that had been the Technarch’s face a moment before. He stared down suddenly at the floor, dizzy. My God, he thought. What have I let myself in for? An interstellar expedition!
Then he smiled ironically. The Technarch had just offered him a chance to be one of the first human beings to meet face-to-face with an intelligent non-terrestrial. And here he was, worrying about a temporary separation from his piddling little comfortable nest. I ought to be celebrating, he thought, not worrying. Brandy and vibrochairs can wait. This is the most important thing I’ll ever do in my life!
He disconnected the sonic screen; the harpsichord music died away in the middle of a twanging cadence. Yeats returned to the bookshelf. He took a final sip of brandy and replaced the flask in the sideboard.
Within half an hour he had compiled a list of those people who needed to be notified about his departure, and he programmed his robosecretary to make such notification—after he had left. No point in getting into long debates with people over who was going to cover his classes, who was going to read the galleys on his new book. Better to confront people with the fait accompli of his departure and let them make decisions without him.
Packing was a problem; he winnowed out several fat books, packed two slim ones, some clothing, some memodiscs. He found himself unable to sleep, even after taking a relaxotab, and he rose near dawn to pace his flat in tense anticipation. At 1100 hours he decided to transmat across to New York, but his guidebook told him it would still be early in the morning on the other side of the Atlantic. He waited an hour, dialed ahead for courtesy permission to cross, and set his transmat for the Archonate Center.
He stepped through, wondering as always at the manner of the transmat’s operation. His thought was cut in half as the field seized hold of him; when he emerged at the other end, he was still in mid-thought.
Dour-faced Archonate men waited for him.
“Come this way, Dr. Bernard.”
He followed, feeling strangely conspicuous, like a sacrificial victim being led to the altar. They led him into an adjoining room whose monumentality indicated plainly that it was the private chamber of the Technarch McKenzie, the embodiment of human strength and ambition.
The Technarch himself was not present in his chambers at the moment. But three other men were, and they came to attention as Bernard entered, looking him over with the tense anticipation of men who were still uncertain of their own positions.
Bernard studied them.
To his left, in the far corner of the room, stood a tall, dark-faced man whose lips were drawn down in an austere, almost gloomy scowl. His body was long and angular, seemingly strung together out of rods and pipes. He wore the somber clothes that indicated his affiliation with the Neopuritan movement. Bernard bristled instinctively; he had grown to regard the Neopuritans with open distaste, as men whose values were so far from his that no reconciliation was possible.
Closer to Bernard stood a second man, shorter, but still a little over six feet in height. He was a cheerfully affable-looking man in his early fifties, with pink close-shaven skin that radiated hearty good health and a sense of enjoyment of life. The third man in the room was short and stocky, with quick, darting black eyes and heavy frown-lines in his forehead. He seemed a packet of energy, contained but ready to burst forth at any unpredictable moment.
Bernard looked around, hiding his discomfort. “Hello,” he said, before anyone else could speak. “My name’s Martin Bernard, and I’m a sociologist, and one of the somewhat puzzled draftees for this thing. Are you three part of this outfit too, or just here to confer?”
The ruddy-faced, affable-looking man smiled warmly and put out his hand. Bernard took it. A soft hand, uncalloused, but strong nevertheless. “Roy Stone,” the man announced. “I’m basically a politician, I guess. Officially I’m the understudy for the Archon of Colonial Affairs.”
“Pleased,” Bernard muttered ritually.
“And I’m Norman Dominici,” the stocky one said, crossing the room in tense steps that added to the impression of penned-up nervous energy he gave. “I’m a biophysicist— when I’m not out on expeditions to green-faced aliens, that is. Welcome to our little band, Bernard.”
Only the Neopuritan had not offered an introduction. He remained where he was, at the wall but not leaning against it. Bernard felt irritated at the man’s lack of courtesy, but the sociologist’s innate desire for friendship got the better of him, and he turned uncertainly toward the Neopuritan, resolved to make the first overture.
“Hello?” Bernard said doubtfully.
“Watch out,” Norman Dominici warned sotto voce. “He’s just not the friendly type.”
The big man turned slowly to face Bernard. He was, the sociologist thought, a veritable hulking giant of a man—six feet seven in height, at the very least. The Neopuritan bore the aloof, withdrawn look that men sometimes develop when they grow to enormous heights at precocious ages. A ten-year-old who stands six feet tall is never really going to get very chummy with the playmates over whom he towers, and the gulf quite unsurprisingly tended to widen in later years.
“The name is Thomas Havig,” the lanky Neopuritan said in a high-pitched, reedy voice that was surprisingly thin for one so tall. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Dr. Bernard— but we’ve shared the pages of several learned periodicals in the recent past.”
Bernard’s eyes went wide with sudden amazement and consternation. Of all people…! “You’re Thomas Havig of Columbia?” he asked.
“Thomas Havig of Columbia, yes,” the big man replied. “The Thomas Havig who wrote Conjectures on the Etruscan Morphemes, Dr. Bernard.” The merest trace of a smile appeared on Havig’s thin lips. “It was an article which you didn’t seem to appreciate, I fear.”
Bernard looked at the other two men, then back at Havig.
“Why—why, I simply found myself totally unable to swallow any one of your premises, Havig. Starting from the initial statement and going right down the line through everything you said. You flatly contradicted everything we know about the Etruscan personality and culture, you wantonly attempted to distort the known body of knowledge to fit your own preconceived social philosophy, you—you simply didn’t handle the job in a way I thought proper.”