The pouch of his tunic yielded three green-gold pellets: metabolic compensators. Bork gobbled them hurriedly, and, as his body returned to normal equilibrium, sank back to brood over the ignominious course of the interview.
Naturally, Bork thought, the conversation had been monitored and recorded. That meant that Vyn Kumagon and six or seven technicians had been eye-witness to the emissary’s fumbling handling of the first interview—and, with the interview already permanently locked into a cellular recorder, there would be many more eavesdroppers, a long chain of them between here and Vengo and the First Warden.
Bork knew he had to redeem himself.
High faith had been placed in him—but who could have anticipated a Terran counter-propaganda force on Mellidani VII? It had shattered his calm.
He would have to rethink his approach.
Undeniably, the Terrans were here. And undeniably they had made overtures of some sort toward the aliens. Of what sort? That was the missing datum. The keystone of all possible speculations was missing—the purpose of the Terrans.
Did they have some strategic use intended for Mellidan VII? That seemed improbable, in view of the world’s forbidding nature. No Terran colony could survive here without the protection of a dome. Unless, he thought coldly, they meant to take over the planet and convert it into a new Earth, as they had done with Sol II, Sol IV, and one of the moons of Sol VI. That would mean the death or deportation of the Mellidani, but would the Terrans worry long over that?
Yet—why would they pick an inhabited world for such a project, when there yet remained a dead planet in their own system? Bork forced himself to reject the colonization plan as implausible under any circumstances.
Perhaps Terra had some yet unknown economic need that Mellidan VII met. Perhaps—
Bork’s head ached. Speculation was not easy for him. After a while he rose and went below to seek sleep.
There was a fixed routine for the assimilation of worlds into the Federation. It was a routine developed over thousands of years—ever since Vengo spread out to absorb its three sister worlds, eleven thousand years Galactic before, and the Federation was born. The routine customarily was successful.
Growth had been slow, at first. Two solar systems the first millenium, yielding five inhabited worlds. Then three systems the second millennium, with four worlds. Eleven worlds the next, seventeen the next—
Until four hundred eighty-five worlds had been folded into the protective warmth of the Federation, nineteen during Bork’s own lifetime. Only four worlds had ever refused to come in—the four Terran worlds, approached five times without success over the preceding two centuries. And now, Mellidan VII showed signs of recalcitrance. Bork resolved to use the age-old phrases and persuasion techniques until the Mellidani were unable to resist.
Violence, of course was shunned; the Federation had outgrown that millennia ago. But there were other methods.
When the Mellidani trio returned on the following day for their meeting with Bork, the emissary was ready for them, nerves soothed, mind primed and alert. Today, he noticed, the order had indeed been shuffled. The monthly changeover in planetary leadership had taken place.
Bork said, “Yesterday we were discussing the advantages of Federation membership for your world. You suggested that you might be more sympathetic to the Terrans than you are to us. Would you care to tell me just what guarantees the Terrans have made to you?”
“None.”
“But—”
“The Terrans have warned us against entering your Federation. They say your promises are false, that you will deceive us and swallow us up in your hugeness.”
Bork stiffened. “Did they ask you to sign any sort of treaty with them?”
“No. None whatever.”
“Then what have they been doing here since they landed?” Bork demanded, exasperated.
“Taking measurements of our planet, making scientific studies, exploring and learning. They have also been telling us somewhat about your Federation and warning us against you.”
“They have no right to poison your minds against us! We came here in good faith to demonstrate to you how it was to your advantage to join the Federation.”
“And the Terrans came in good faith to tell us the opposite,” returned the alien implacably. Bork had a sudden sense of the unfleshliness of the creature, of its strange hydrocarbon chemistry and its chlorine-breathing lungs. It seemed to him that the stiff white face of the Mellidani was a mask that hid only other masks within.
“Whom should we believe?” the alien asked. “You—or the Terrans?”
Bork moistened tension-parched lips. “The Earthmen clearly lie. We have brought with us films and charts of Galactic progress. The Federation is plainly preferable to the rootless, companionless life the Terrans have chosen. Be reasonable, friends. Should you cut yourself off from the main current of Galactic life by refusing to join the Federation? You’re intelligent; I can see that immediately. Why withdraw? If you decline to Federate, it will become impossible for you to have cultural or commercial interchange with any of the Federated worlds. You—”
“Answer this question, please,” said the Mellidani abruptly. “Why is this Federation of yours necessary?”
“What?”
“Why can’t we have these contacts without joining?”
“Why … because—”
Bork gasped like a creature jerked suddenly from its natural element. This sudden nerve-shattering question had thrust itself between his ribs like a keen blade.
He realized he had no answer to the alien’s question. No glib catch-phrases rose to his lips. He sputtered inanely, reddened, and finally took recourse to the same tactic of retreat he had employed the day before.
“This is a question that requires further study. I’ll take it up with you tomorrow at this time.”
The Mellidani faded from the glowing screen. Emissary Bork made contact with Adjutant Kumagon and said, “Get in touch with the Terrans. There has to be an immediate conference with them.”
“At once,” Kumagon said.
Bork scowled. The adjutant seemed almost pleased. Was that the shadow of a smile flickering on the man’s lips?
Later that day a hatch near the firing tubes of the Federation ship pivoted open and the shining beetle-like shape of a landcar dropped through, its treads striking the barren Mellidani soil and carrying it swiftly away. Aboard were Emissary Holis Bork and two aides—Fifth Attaché Hu Sdreen and Third Attaché Brul Dirrib.
The landcar sped across the ground, through the shallow pools of precipitated carbon tetrachloride, through the low-hanging thick murk of the sky, and minutes later arrived at the violet-hued Terran habitation dome.
There, a hatch swung open, admitting the car to an air lock. The hatch sealed hissingly; a second lock irised open, and air—oxynitrogen air—bellied in. Several Terrans were waiting as Bork and his aides stepped from the landcar.
Bork felt uneasy in their presence. They were trim, lean, efficient-looking men, all clad more or less alike. One, older than the rest, came forward and lifted his hand in a formal Federation salute, which Bork automatically returned.
“I’m Major general Gambrell,” the Terran said, speaking fluent Federation. The second mission to Terra had educated the natives in the Galactic tongue, and they had never forgotten it. “I’m in charge here for the time being,” Gambrell said. “Suppose you come on up to my office and we can talk this thing over.”
Gambrell led the way up a neat row of low metal houses and entered one several stories high; Bork followed him, signaling for the aides to remain outside. When they were within, Gambrell seated himself behind a battered wooden desk, fished in his pocket, and produced a cigarette pack. He offered it to Bork.