Baxter let his head fall between his hands, then began kneading the knot of muscles at the back of his neck. Wyman had taken the responsibility off of him, except for working the transceiver—something Baxter felt confident enough to handle. But, still, he felt no relief. He leaned back in the chair and bit his lower lip. He was coming across as a complaining, whining, incompetent loser. "Dammit, Wyman," he said to the overhead, "don't you understand that they're messing with my mind? How would you weather a good look at yourself, you brass-plated diplomat?"
His transceiver buzzed, and he pressed the key. "This is Baxter."
"Wyman. Well, boy, it looks as though you have royally screwed up the works. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't give two cents for the chances your tailfeathers have if you ever set foot in this country again."
"It's nice hearing from you too, Wyman."
"Okay, here is the drill. We have put together a mission, and we're waiting now for Lothas or his council to decide whether or not to take them on board. The communications we've had were not encouraging. Just in case, we're going on full alert, and a spit-and-baling-wire arrangement is being put together to coordinate the military defenses of every nation on Earth. By the way, we've had at least one break. The Russian isn't going to make it. He bought it during the launch— "
"Wyman, you twit! A break? You call that a break? What brand of bumwad are you using for brains? I need help up here, and fast—"
"Grow up, Baxter! Help, from the Soviets?"
Baxter shook his head. "No, Wyman. Help from another human." Baxter felt himself giggling. "You haven't gotten the message yet—you people down there. We're all in this together… all of us." He shook his head as his giggles turned into quiet tears. The transceiver clicked, then clicked again. Wyman had keyed in, then keyed out—nothing to say.
The transceiver clicked again. "Remember, Baxter. Do nothing without authorization, and make sure they understand that, from now on, they will be dealing with us directly. Wyman out."
Baxter released the key on the transceiver. He shrugged, released the catch on his belt, and stood, leaving the belt and transceiver in the chair. The iris to his compartment opened and Simdna entered. "Captaincarlbaxter, Deayl would speak with you if it is your desire."
Baxter looked at the transceiver on the chair, then back at Simdna. "Yes. I will see him." Simdna left through the iris and Deayl entered. "It is good to see you again, Illya. Are you feeling better?"
Deayl stared down at the hue-mun, the creature's image wavered before his eyes. Better? Do I feel better? The iris closed and Deayl took a step forward. "Baxter, we have exchanged names."
"Yes, Illya."
Deayl wiped a clawed hand over his muzzle. "Do you remember I said this obligates me to nothing?"
"I remember." Baxter frowned, then looked once again at the transceiver. He turned back and faced the Nitolan. Deayl had come another step closer, his frightful clawed hands were outstretched.
"Still, I must tell you why I do this, Baxter." Baxter began edging away from the Nitolan. "Do what?"
"Baxter, the knowing ones have left for Nitola to talk with your computers. The hue-muns below struggle with the same problem: how are we to live together in peace —a thing that can never be."
"How do you know? You're upset—"
"The longer we wait to take back our planet, the harder it will be. Even now the hue-muns prepare. But, I must make this clear to the council, and to do this I must provoke the hue-muns. You see, I must murder you."
"Murder…" Baxter watched as Deayl came closer, his black, dagger-sized claws glowing softly in the light of the compartment. The hands struck out, and Baxter ducked. He turned, grabbed the wing-backed chair and threw it at the Nitolan. Deayl swatted it away, splintering it, and smashing the transceiver. Before the pieces hit the deck, Baxter reached the panel controlling the iris and slapped it with both hands. "Simdna! For God's sake, Simdna!" As the iris opened, Baxter felt Deayl's hands encircling his chest, the long claws ripping into his lungs…
A week passed, and many of those on Earth marveled at how easily arms and territorial agreements between nations could be reached, now that they—in the face of the power—had become meaningless. The strange Nitolan vessel squatted silently next to the hangar where human technicians maintained the links between the ship and a vast array of computers located in almost every nation of Earth. No one saw the Nitolans, and for a week, there had been no communications from either Lothas or Baxter.
In a motel, near the airbase, a diplomatic mission headed by the secretary of state waited impatiently to board the Nitolan ship. On the other side of the field, a task force of commandos practiced their assault plan on the vessel. In Washington, Moscow, Paris, London, Peking, Cairo… haggard faces circled cup— and butt-littered tables, waiting by brand new communication facilities for some kind—any kind—of news.
The base commander, General Stayer, heard it first. A shaken voice—one of the technicians in the hangar. No warning. The Nitolans had disconnected the links to the hangar and rose into the night.
The waiting began in earnest.
Deb Baxter listened to the rain spatter against the window and let her arm fall on the empty side of the bed. She opened her hand, palm down, and caressed the overstuffed quilt. She made a fist, then rolled over and pulled a cigarette from a half-empty pack on her night stand. She had been three years off cigarettes, and she realized as she struck a match that she was already back to two packs a day. In the light of the match, her eyes were puffy, with dark circles. She touched the match to the end of the cigarette, then shook it out. Taking a pillow and propping it up against the headboard, she propped herself up against it and studied the dark surrounding the warm coal that brightened with each drag she took.
She had faced that Baxter wasn't coming back, learned she could survive the fact, then accepted it—almost. Nights without sleeping pills still became vigils. She threw off the covers, swung her legs to the cold floor and walked barefooted to the bedroom window. Holding the dark curtain aside, she stared at the security lights surrounding the experimental parking ramp. Somewhere out there, some poor jerk who had been conned off the farm with promises of becoming an "Aerospace Technician" was walking guard, rifle muzzle down, head and shoulders hunched under a poncho against the rain. She shook her head. "Stupid. It's not even supposed to rain in the desert."
She heard sirens in the distance, and then red lights streaked down the base's main drag, between her and the lights around the experimental ramp. There were always sirens. Baxter used to roll over and mumble something about the AP's playing cops and robbers, then sink back into sleep. She listened as the sirens grew dim, then gradually increased in volume. Must be turning into the area. She smiled and shook her head. An area. I don't call it a neighborhood, or even a development, anymore. An area. She felt an ash brush her knuckles as it fell from the cigarette to the carpet. "Damn!" She stooped down to make certain that she had not ignited the cheap pile, then held up her head as she heard the sirens grow very loud, then die amidst a squeal of brakes. Immediately a loud pounding came from her door.
She looked around the dark bedroom, found her robe thrown over a chair, and began putting it on. "Mrs. Baxter! Mrs. Baxter, are you in there?"