Hartnell slammed his desk phone down viciously and leaped to his feet.
“This is impossible!” he fumed at Chilko. “We could never build the nullifier in that short a time.”
“But the aliens claim that their, testing group will arrive next week,” the Russian said. “What can we do? All we have is an untested theory. We need time to build the machine.”
Hartnell slapped the desk hard and shouted, “We will get the time. We shall go to see the aliens this very minute. Surely if we show them that we already have the theory, which I’m sure is correct, and that we need only the time to apply its principles mechanically, they will grant us the stay. At any rate, it is certainly worth a try!”
He snatched up his phone and quickly dialed the U.N. laboratory where the aliens were being kept.
“Hello, this is Hartnell speaking. I want to arrange an immediate interview with the aliens… That is right, slates and all… We will be there in half an hour.”
When Hartnell and Chilko arrived at the interrogation hall with their portfolios, everything was ready for the interview. By this time the problem of communication with the aliens had been much simplified. A very efficient pictograph system had been worked out that allowed the interview to progress almost as quickly as if both groups could actually speak to each other. The alien captain and his crew sat on one side of a conference table on low stools. The two Earth scientists sat opposite them. Hartnell and the captain both used large slates upon which they wrote their pictographs. Hartnell wrote first.
“We wish to delay the test.”
“I do not know if we can do that,” the captain wrote. “We work on a close schedule, there are several other planets waiting for our examiners.”
“We have good reason for our request,” Hartnell’s chalk flew over his slate. “We already have the theory of nuclear fission nullification. We need only the time to build and test the machinery necessary to do the work.”
“Can you prove what you say?” the captain asked.
In answer Hartnell handed him a sheaf of his notes, hastily written in pictographs. The captain examined them for a moment, and then handed them to the other aliens. They chattered together for a while, and then the captain wrote:
“Your theory is correct, I believe that we can grant you a stay on the strength of it.”
Hartnell and Chilko sat back and broke into wide grins.
“However, there are a few complications,” the captain continued.
The scientists sat forward again.
“In order to delay the Test we must contact our central office. As you know, our spaceship has been unfortunately destroyed. We have no way of communicating with the proper authorities.”
“Can’t we help you?” Hartnell asked. “I am sure that we could build a transmitter for you, if you would but give us enough information to do so.”
The captain did not answer immediately; instead he conferred with his crew again for several minutes. Finally he wrote:
“We have decided that, since your case is unique in the point that we accidentally lost our means of communications—for which you cannot be blamed—we would not be committing a breach of regulations in giving you enough information to build the necessary transmitter.”
Within five days, ten of the best electronics men available had assembled the aliens’ transmitter from schematics drawn for them by the captain. It was not a particularly large affair, being small enough to fit inside an army radar van. It did require, however, almost the entire output of the U.N.’s power plant to run it.
Newspapers and radios blared forth the joyous news of the reprieve. There were celebrations throughout the world, the like of which had not been seen since VJ day. Whistles blew and people danced in the streets. When the day arrived for the aliens to send their message, a million people jammed the mall in front of the U.N. building. The transmitter’s radar van had been parked in front of a reviewing stand that held dozens of internationally famous men. The aliens themselves were grouped around the transmitter’s control rack that was mounted at the rear of the truck. They were being photographed by forests of cameras and televised to millions of people as they prepared to contact their world. Amika, the radio operator, checked the transmitter thoroughly.
“Not a bad job,” he reported to the captain. “It should work fine. What do you want me to send, sir?”
The captain handed him a slip of paper. Amika read it and reached for the transmitter key.
As Amika tapped out the interstellar code, the first officer turned to the captain and asked: “Do you think they’ll come for us, sir?”
“I’m certain of it,” the captain reassured him. “Once they pick up that code the Guard ships will be here as fast as their overdrives will allow.”
The first officer looked out at the whirring cameras and the pushing crowds.
“Will we ever return, sir?”
The captain turned his head Lo the crowd. “Oh, I don’t know. I gave them a two-year reprieve. It might be fun, at that, to come back and see how our little experiment in world nationalization worked out. At any rate, I’m certain that our Trade Commission will be interested in that nullifier thing of theirs. It looks as if it might work at that.”
Twenty light-years across the galaxy an alien substation operator stretched his tentacles in weariness as he sat before his quiet equipment. Suddenly a red light flashed as a multiple light speed beam flashed an S.O.S. into the receiver. A recorder started immediately and an audio converter changed the signals into words.
“Disabled ship. Disabled ship,” the speaker blared. The operator swiveled in his chair and listened intently. “This is Flight 425 out of Central calling. I repeat, Flight 425 out of Central. Requesting immediate assistance. Disabled in a fuel explosion at 0745 T.U. on the 13th day of Jeleval. Drifted off course into the general area of Sector III. Suffered seventy per cent casualties in the explosion and bailed out. Have been stranded among an aberrated civilization for several time-periods. Were forced to fabricate a story about a Galactic Empire and an Atomic Test in order to trick them into building a transmitter for us. This is the first opportunity we have had to communicate. Will leave transmitter keyed in to act as homing beam for you. Please send aid immediately. The chow here is awful.
Captain Jula of Nark,
Commanding.”
The operator removed the recording cube from its machine and placed it in the relay slot that fed to Galactic Guard headquarters. As he pushed the button that activated the relay transmitter he smiled an alien smile.
“Those Guard boys,” he muttered to himself, “trust them to get their hides out of a pickle.”