They walked toward him on powerful legs with clawed feet. Although bipedal, they stooped forward, carrying their long, thin arms in front. Baxter's gaze went from the clawed toes to the clawed fingers, then to the gleaming rows of teeth. As he unstrapped, removed his helmet and cracked the Python's canopy, Baxter ran a dry tongue over equally dry lips. He stood, stepped over the side of the cockpit, pushing his toes into the step holes, and climbed down from his craft. He turned as the delegation of creatures came to a halt. Stooped over, the creatures were only a little taller than himself. One of them rotated its body, bringing its neck and head well above the others. Baxter cleared his throat and croaked, "I bring you greetings from the President of the United States."
Deayl watched the scene of the docking bay reception a moment longer, then closed his eyes. If so long ago we had not abandoned our gods. If I could only lay my burden at the feet of old Sisal, or old Fane. He extended a claw and shut off the monitor. Energizing another monitor, he watched Nitola, and his pain eased.
I do not do it for myself, but for all of us. He kept his eyes on the image as he pressed the signal to Lothas' quarters.
"Lothas."
"Deayl, Lothas. Baxter has landed safely, and Medp brings him now to the quarters prepared for him."
"Deayl, is 'Baxter' the representative's name of friendship?"
Deayl lowered his muzzle to his chest. "Yes. And I extended mine to him."
"This is good. He shall rest for the remainder of the cycle, then you shall demonstrate to him the Power. I shall meet with him after."
"All will be as you wish, Lothas."
"Deayl, with your mind concerning the return to Nitola, exchanging names with the hue-muns was a fine gesture." A pause, as though Lothas expected some sort of comment. "Deayl, I know you disapprove of my direction as governor, but I know you to be a strong and determined champion of our race. I would exchange names with you. I am called 'Dimmis.'"
Deayl wiped a shaking hand over his muzzle, then nodded. "I am called 'Illya.' "
"A home for you, Illya."
Deayl pressed the panel, extended his fingers, and placed his palms over his eyes. Ah! Ah, it comes! The pain returns. How many disgraces must I bring upon myself before my task is done? How many?
In his quarters, Baxter sagged as he tried to get comfortable in the strange chair. As near as he could figure it, he had just completed a three kilometer dead run from the docking bay, trying to keep up with the delegation. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. The white bulkheads were bare, except for the three iris-like doors. One door led to a closet, another to the corridor, and the third to a bathroom straight from one of Baxter's more imaginative nightmares. He had been literally relieved to find that he could use the equipment, although with some difficulty. On the deck, several thick cushions were arranged for sleeping. His chair had a black metal frame and was upholstered with a soft green fabric. Baxter sat on one side of the seat, since the center-rear was open to comfortably seat the Nitolan tail. The backrest, tilted forward to accommodate the creatures' stooping backs, dug into Baxter's shoulderblades. His ankles reached to the edge of the seat.
He reached to his belt and pressed the switch to his radio that, through the relay set in the Python, would keep him in touch with Earth. "Mission Control, this is Messenger."
"Messenger, report on your situation."
"I'm established in quarters. At the moment, I'm supposed to be resting… although that's going to be a little difficult. At about oh-four-hundred GMT tomorrow, I'll be taken on some kind of demonstration, then meet Lothas. The best their language mechanics can make out of his title is 'governor.' Then, whatever negotiations there will be will begin."
"Acknowledged, Messenger. From now on, until you begin preparations for reentry, your communications will be handled by the State Department mission control. Stand by."
Baxter looked down from the chair at the knee-high thick pallet on the deck that would serve him as a bed during his stay. "Baxter, this is Wyman. Do you read?"
"Five by five, Mr. Wyman."
"Good. What have you found out?"
"The Nitolans, first. They look like a cross between a kangaroo, an ostrich and an alligator; general shape for the first, eyes for the second, claws and teeth for the third —lots of teeth. The head is pretty large."
"I understand, Baxter. The ships?"
"Incredible."
"Could you be more specific?"
"The ships are enormous. I can't even tell you how wide they are. Everything seemed to extend out of sight. But, I'm pretty sure they are monitoring our commercial radio and television broadcasts. The lingpile—the thing they use to convert their language into and out of English—talks like Merv Griffin. They have some sort of force field or tractor beam that pulled me into their lead ship, and I think the same thing allows them to simulate gravity on board. Gravity appears to be Earth normal, and there appears to be no inducement of this by centrifugal force or other physical means. That's it, except that they seem friendly —and curious."
"Baxter, do they appear secretive or evasive about themselves?"
Baxter shook his head. "Not that I can tell. In fact, they provided me with a reader of some kind in case I wanted some diversion when I wasn't sleeping. They prepared something for me that contains a nutshell history of them, their mission, and so on."
"You will begin on it at once, Baxter."
"Mr. Wyman, I'm a little bushed right now—"
"At once, Baxter! Until we know more, all of us are groping in the dark-including you. Now, do your homework."
"Yessir."
"One more thing, Baxter."
"Go ahead."
"We must establish to a certainty from where they came. If they, in fact, have come from Earth's past, we must be sure. Do you have any indications other than their appearance? Things they've said? Answers to your questions?"
"Mr. Wyman, I haven't asked them Babe Ruth's all-time batting average, or the words to 'Yankee Doodle,' if that's what you're talking about."
"I understand. I'll see about preparing a suitable list of questions—things based on our knowledge of the period they claim to be from. Is there anything you need?"
Baxter thought a moment. "How is all this striking the public?"
"Officially, we are denying everything, and so are the Soviets, but rumors are spreading fast. Too many people picked up that initial broadband contact, although it hasn't grown serious yet."
"What about the Russian?"
"Launch is still go for the day after tomorrow. We still don't have a line on what they plan to pull. That it?"
"Yes. Baxter out." He released the switch, sighed and slid to the front edge of the seat, then dropped to the floor. The edge of the seat came to his waist. Baxter walked to the door panel, reached up and pressed the platter-sized button with both hands. Part of the wall dilated iris fashion, exposing a wide corridor and a Nitolan standing guard. The creature walked to the opening, its heavy tail scraping harshly against the deck, and stooped in Baxter's direction.
"May I help you, Captaincarlbaxter? I am Simdna."
Baxter nodded and pointed at the swept-screened contraption attached to a chair by a swinging metal brace. "Yes. Medp said that I could use the reader if I wanted, but I am ignorant of its operation." Baxter walked to the reader chair, climbed up and settled in as the Nitolan followed, then pushed the reader more closely to the chair. "Now, what do I do?"
Simdna picked up two pancake-sized tabs and held them out to Baxter. "Put one on each side of your head. They will attach themselves."