It was not raining when they landed; according to McLeod, the night rain was scheduled for 0200 in this sector, and the seeders had already been here and moved on to bring rain to the city proper. A groundcar waited for them at the airstrip in the hills. McLeod drove, handling the turboelectric job with skill.
“There’s the ship,” he said proudly, pointing.
Walton felt a sudden throat lump.
The ship stood on its tail in the midst of a wide, flat swath of jet-blackened concrete. It was at least five hundred feet high, a towering pale needle shimmering brightly in the moonlight. Wideswept tailjets supported it like arching buttresses. Men moved busily about in the floodlighted area at its base.
McLeod drove up to the ship and around it. The flawless symmetry of the foreside was not duplicated behind; there, a spidery catwalk ran some eighty feet up the side of the ship to a gaping lock, and by its side a crude elevator shaft rose to the same hatch.
McLeod drew efficient salutes from the men as he left the car; Walton, only puzzled glares.
“We’d better take the elevator,” McLeod said. “The men are working on the catwalk.”
Silently they rode up into the ship. They stepped through the open airlock into a paneled lounge, then into narrow companionways. McLeod paused and pressed down a stud in an alcove along the way.
“I’m back,” he announced. “Tell Thogran Klayrn that I’ve brought Walton. Find out whether he’ll come out to talk to him.”
“I thought he had to breathe special atmosphere,” Walton said. “How can he come out?”
“They’ve got breathing masks. Usually they don’t like to use them.” McLeod listened at the earpiece for a moment, then nodded. To Walton he said, “The alien will see you in the lounge.”
Walton had barely time to fortify himself with a slug of filtered rum when a crewman appeared at the entrance to the lounge and declared ostentatiously, “His Excellency, Thogran Klayrn of Dirna.”
The alien entered.
Walton had seen the photographs, and so he was partially prepared. But only partially.
The photos had not given him any idea of size. The alien stood eight feet high, and gave an appearance of astonishing mass. It must have weighed four or five hundred pounds, but it stood on two thick legs barely three feet long. Somewhere near the middle of the column body, four sturdy arms jutted forth strangely. A neck-less head topped the ponderous creature—a head covered entirely with the transparent breathing mask. One of the hands held a mechanical device of some sort; the translating machine, Walton surmised.
The alien’s hide was bright-green, and leathery in texture. A faint pungent odor drifted through the room, as of an object long immersed in ammonia.
“I am Thogran Klayrn,” a booming voice said. “Diplomasiarch of Dirna. I have been sent to talk with Roy Walton. Are you Roy Walton?”
“I am.” Walton’s voice sounded cold and dry to his own ears. He knew he was too tense, pressing too hard. “I’m very glad to meet you, Thogran Klayrn.”
“Please sit. I do not. My body is not made that way.”
Walton sat. It made him feel uncomfortable to have to crane his neck upward at the alien, but that could not be helped. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” Walton asked, temporizing desperately.
A half-grunt came from Thogran Klayrn. “Indeed it was so. But I do not indulge in little talk. A problem we have, and it must be discussed.”
“Agreed.” Whatever a diplomasiarch might be on Dirna, it was not a typical diplomat. Walton was relieved that it would not be necessary to spend hours in formalities before they reached the main problem.
“A ship sent out by your people,” the alien said, “invaded our system some time ago. In command was your Colonel McLeod, whom I have come to know well. What was the purpose of this ship?”
“To explore the worlds of the universe and to discover a planet where we of Earth could settle. Our world is very overcrowded now.”
“So I have been given to know. You have chosen Labura—or, in your terms, Procyon VIII—as your colony. Is this so?”
“Yes,” Walton said. “It’s a perfect world for our purposes. But Colonel McLeod has informed me that you object to our settling there.”
“We do so object.” The Dirnan’s voice was cold. “You are a young and active race. We do not know what danger you may bring to us. To have you as our neighbors—”
“We could swear a treaty of eternal peace,” Walton said.
“Words. Mere words.”
“But don’t you see that we can’t even land on that planet of yours! It’s too big, too heavy for us. What possible harm could we do?”
“There are races,” said the Dirnan heavily, “which believe in violence as a sacred act. You have long-range missiles. How might we trust you?”
Walton squirmed; then sudden inspiration struck him. “There’s a planet in this system that’s as suitable for your people as Labura is for ours. I mean Jupiter. We could offer you colonial rights to Jupiter in exchange for the privilege of colonizing Labura!”
The alien was silent for a moment. Considering? There was no way of telling what emotions passed across that face. At length the alien said, “Not satisfactory. Our people have long since reached stability of population. We have no need of colonies. It has been many thousands of your years since we have ventured into space.”
Walton felt chilled. Many thousands of years! He realized he was up against a formidable life form.
“We have learned to stabilize births and deaths,” the Dirnan went on sonorously. “It is a fundamental law of the universe, and one that you Earthfolk must learn sooner or later. How you choose to do it is your own business. But we have no need of planets in your system, and we fear allowing you to enter ours. The matter is simple of statement, difficult of resolution. But we are open to suggestions from you.”
Walton’s mind blanked. Suggestions? What possible suggestion could he make?
He gasped. “We have something to offer,” he said. “It might be of value to a race that has achieved population stability. We would give it to you in exchange for colonization rights.”
“What is this commodity?” the Dirnan asked.
“Immortality,” Walton said.
XIX
He returned to New York alone, later that night, too tired to sleep and too wide awake to relax. He felt like a poker player who had triumphantly topped four kings with four aces, and now was fumbling in his hand trying to locate some of those aces for his skeptical opponents.
The alien had accepted his offer. That was the one solid fact he was able to cling to, on the lonely night ride back from Nairobi. The rest was a quicksand of it’s and maybes.
If Lamarre could be found…
If the serum actually had any value…
If it was equally effective on Earthmen and Dirnans…
Walton tried to dismiss the alternatives. He had made a desperately wild offer, and it had been accepted. New Earth was open for colonization, if …
The world outside the jet was a dark blur. He had left Nairobi at 0518 Nairobi time; jetting back across the eight intervening time zones, he would arrive in New York around midnight. Ultra rapid jet transit made such things possible; he would live twice through the early hours of June nineteenth.
New Yorkhad a fifteen minute rain scheduled at 0100 that night. Walton reached the housing project where he lived just as the rain was turned on. The night was otherwise a little muggy; he paused outside the main entrance, letting the drops fall on him. After a few minutes, feeling faintly foolish and very tired, he went inside, shook himself dry, and went to bed. He did not sleep.