"Four billion?"
"And, they grow in numbers every day. This does not explain all, but it lets us see a little."
Lothas changed the positions on several slotswitches, then energized a panel, causing a tiny dot to appear on the monitor. He pressed another panel, and the dot expanded until the monitor was filled with an image of a sleek, black ship, just separating from a cluster of acceleration tubes. "Such a tiny craft. Have you come to a determination about the hue-muns' rite called humor?"
"It is exasperating. The loud reaction—the laughing, chuckling and so on—appears to be pleasurable. But, the causes of the reaction—pain, misfortune, shame, misunderstanding—all are causes of grief as well." Medp looked at the monitor. "It needs more information for sense to be made of it. Still, they are fascinating creatures. I could devote my remaining cycles to studying them."
Lothas extended a claw toward the monitor. "Part of your wish approaches now, Medp: Your first specimen, Captaincarlbaxter."
Baxter was surprised at how familiar everything was. The wing drop from the mother plane, the slam of the initial and secondary burns, even the attitude correction rockets. He looked out of the tiny canopy windows, little more than a hand's breadth from his faceplate, to see himself floating on the outer limits of Earth's atmosphere. Above, the sky was star-studded black. He searched the space above for a visual sighting, but could see nothing. He looked down, and the cluster of ships was indicated clearly on his screen. As he studied the screen, he finally realized what he was about to do. The frustrations of the morning and the skull-popping briefing by the Python's pilot, plus frantic phone conversations with several Undersecretaries of State, along with a brief inspirational call from the President, faded as the thought of meeting… whoever they are, filled his mind.
This is a bigger event than walking on the moon. This is what generations of movie makers and novelists have speculated about.
"Messenger, this is Mission Control."
Baxter opened his channel. "This is Messenger. Go ahead."
"Messenger, we're patching you into a line connected with the State Department. Stand by."
Baxter listened to a series of clicks, howls, and crackles. "Captain Baxter, this is Undersecretary Wyman. Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear, Mr. Wyman."
"Baxter, our most recent information on the Soviet mission indicates that they will have a man up in less than three days. They are sending Lavr Razin. Razin is a former cosmonaut, now attached to the Soviet mission to the U.N. Understand?"
"Affirmative. Can you tell me anything about him?"
The channel went dead for long moments, then came to life. "Baxter, since we don't know, we are assuming that none of our transmissions are secure from the… visitors." Another pause. "We can tell you to watch out. Razin is no Fozzie Bear, savvy?"
"Affirmative."
"Goodbye, and good luck, Baxter."
Baxter signed off with Mission Control, wishing that Undersecretary Wyman's goodbye hadn't sounded so final. He gave his instruments a casual sweep, then looked out of the left side canopy window. Green fire danced upon the Python's skin. "Captaincarlbaxter?"
"This is Messenger. Go ahead, Mission Control."
A long pause. "I am called Deayl. Are you Captaincarlbaxter?"
A strange feeling began tugging at Baxter's stomach. The voice sounded… ultranormal—the ideal of every midwestern radio announcer. "Yes, this is Baxter."
"Greetings. Our instruments inform us that, unless you remove the force of your engines, you will be destroyed." Baxter turned back to his own instruments. Every dial was either pegged or dead. "We have you in the grip of our power. With it, we shall bring you into our control ship. It will not harm you, unless you fail to turn off your engines."
Baxter raised a gloved hand, hesitated, then began punching and flicking switches according to the Python's shutdown SOP. "The craft is shut down… Deayl."
"Sensible. I am curious, Captaincarlbaxter. What were you hue-muhs seventy million years ago?"
Baxter swallowed and tried to recall his ten minute high-speed briefing on the lineage of Man. "After all, Baxter, they may want to establish the authenticity of our claim to this planet." "At that stage, we were prosimians — the apes hadn't evolved yet. You know what I mean when I say 'apes'?"
"Yes. We have seen them on your transmissions."
Baxter frowned. What if those guys can pick up every radio and T. V. transmission on Earth ? They could assemble quite a body of information. "Interesting."
"What did the prosimians look like?"
"Well, I understand that they were small, long-tailed creatures that resembled present-day squirrels. Probably, they were adept at securing food by leaping about in the trees, eating fruit, seeds, eggs—"
"Ah, the tree jontyl. I recognize them. That is very curious, Captaincarlbaxter. Tree jontyls were very well-known to my race when we occupied this planet. My mouth has been watering for one for over seventy million years. I am looking forward to seeing you."
They called themselves Nitolans —Earthlings in another tongue. As his craft approached the ship in the lead center of the armada of Nitolan vessels, Baxter felt the awe he experienced when, as a boy often, he had been taken into St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York. One hundred and ninety-seven ships, and any one of them large enough to dwarf a supertanker. The ships were long, cylindrical, and with ridges along the sides that could be retractable wings. As he observed the smooth skin and flowing configuration of the ships, Baxter realized that the vessels were designed for atmospheric flight. "Captaincarlbaxter?"
"This is Baxter. Deayl?"
A pause. "This is Deayl. This shortening of the name; is this a friendly gesture of you hue-muns?"
"Yes… everybody just calls me 'Baxter'—even my wife."
"Your mate?"
Baxter nodded to himself. "Yes."
Another pause. "Very well, Baxter. I will accept this gesture in kind. I am known as Illya…" Baxter listened while the Nitolan supervising his approach seemed to be wrestling with a thought. "This gesture, Baxter. Understand that it does not obligate me to anything."
Baxter smiled. This guy could have come straight from a Middle East peace conference. "I understand, Illya. Is there anything I should know about being taken into your ship's landing bay?"
"If your craft has surface landing apparatus that is now retracted, you should prepare it. Otherwise, we can suspend your craft in a neutral field. Air will be normal to you."
Baxter noted the existence of artificial gravity. None of the ships were spinning. The Python landed on two fixed rear skids and a nose wheel. He threw the switch and felt the wheel lower and lock as his eyes confirmed the event by observing the safe/go light for the landing gear. "Landing gear down and locked, Illya."
"Noted."
Baxter watched as the underside (toward Earth) of the ship opened, much like the iris of a camera. Dull red light came from the bay, and as the Python closed on the iris, Baxter felt a slight panic at the size of the opening, then at the size of the bay. I feel like a pea rattling around in a fifty-five gallon drum!
The Python rose just above the opening, and Baxter watched open-mouthed as the enormous iris blinked shut. His craft was gently lowered to the deck, and he let out his breath. He checked his instruments, shut down the works, and waited. In the distance he could see four jumbo-jet-sized ships parked off to the side. The bay switched from red to yellow light, and Baxter's mouth remained open as a hatch opened and a delegation of gray-green, long-necked, heavy-tailed creatures entered.