Minutes later, the ship came to rest on a broad ferroconcrete landing apron; it hung poised a moment on its own jet-wash, then settled gently to earth. With gravity-heavy fingers Ewing unfastened himself. Through the vision-screen he saw small beetle-like autotrucks come rumbling over the field toward his ship. The decontamination squad, no doubt; robot-manned, of course.
He waited until they had done their job, then sprung the hatch on his ship and climbed out. The air smelled good—strange, since his home world had a twenty-three percent oxygen content, two parts in a hundred richer than Earth’s—and the day was warm. Ewing spied the vaulting sweep of a terminal building, and headed toward it.
A robot, blocky and faceless, scanned him with photobeams as he passed through the swinging doors. Within, the terminal was a maze of blinking lights, red-green, on-off, up-down. Momentarily, Ewing was dazed.
Beings of all kinds thronged the building. Ewing saw four semi-humanoid forms with bulbous heads engaged in a busy discussion near where he stood. Further in the distance swarms of more Terrestrial beings moved about. Ewing was startled by their appearance.
Some were “normal”—oddly muscular and rugged-looking, but not so much so that they would cause any surprised comment on Corwin. But the others!
Dressed flamboyantly in shimmering robes of turquoise and black, gray and gold, they presented a weird sight. One had no ears; his skull was bare, decorated only by jeweled pendants that seemed to be riveted to the flesh of his scalp. Another had one leg and supported himself by a luminous crutch. A third wore gleaming emeralds on a golden nose ring.
No two of them seemed to look alike. As a trained student of cultural patterns, Ewing was aware of the cause of the phenomenon; over elaboration of decoration was a common evolution for highly advanced societies, such as Earth’s. But it made him feel terribly provincial to see the gaudy display. Corwin was a new world, even after a thousand years of colonization; such fancies were yet to take root there.
Hesitantly, he approached the group of dandified Terrestrials nearest him. They were chattering in artificial-sounding, high-pitched voices.
“Pardon,” Ewing said. “I’ve just arrived from the Free World of Corwin. Is there some place where I can register with the authorities?”
The conversation ceased as if cut off with an ax. The trio whirled, facing Ewing. “You be from a colony world?” asked the uniped, in barely intelligible accents.
Ewing nodded. “Corwin. Sixteen parsecs away. We were settled by Earth a thousand years ago.”
They exchanged words at a speed that made comprehension impossible; it seemed like a private language, some made-up doubletalk. Ewing watched the rouged faces, feeling distaste.
“Where can I register with the authorities?” he asked again, a little stiffly.
The earless one giggled shrilly. “What authorities? This is Earth, friend! We come and go as we please.”
A sense of uneasiness grew in Ewing. He disliked these Terrestrials almost upon sight, after just a moment’s contact.
A new voice, strange, harshly accented, said, “Did I hear you say you were from a colony?”
Ewing turned. One of the “normal” Terrestrials was speaking to him—a man about five-feet-eight, with a thick, squarish face, beetling brows looming over dark smoldering eyes, and a cropped, bullet-shaped head. His voice was dull and ugly sounding.
“I’m from Corwin,” Ewing said.
The other frowned, screwing up his massive brows. He said, “Where’s that?”
“Sixteen parsecs. Epsilon Ursae Majoris XH. Earth colony.”
“And what are you doing on Earth?”
The belligerent tone annoyed Ewing. The Corwinite said, in a bleak voice, “I’m an officially accredited ambassador from my world to the government of Earth. I’m looking for the customs authority.”
“There are none,” the squat man said. “The Earthers did away with them about a century back. Couldn’t be bothered with them, they said.” He grinned in cheerful contempt at the three dandies, who had moved further away and were murmuring busily to each other in their private language. “The Earthers can’t hardly be bothered with anything.” Ewing was puzzled. “Aren’t you from Earth yourself? I mean—”
“Me?” The deep chest emitted a rumbling, sardonic chuckle. “You folk really are isolated, aren’t you? I’m a Sirian. Sirius IV—oldest Terrestrial colony there is. Suppose we get a drink. I want to talk to you.”
2.
Somewhat unwillingly, Ewing followed the burly Sirian through the thronged terminal toward a refreshment room at the far side of the arcade. As soon as they were seated at a gleaming translucent table, the Sirian stared levelly at Ewing and said, “First things come first. What’s your name?”
“Baird Ewing. You?”
“Rollun Firnik. What brings you to Earth, Ewing?” Firnik’s manner was offensively blunt. Ewing toyed with the golden-amber drink the Sirian had bought for him, sipped it idly, put it down. “I told you,” he said quietly. “I’m an ambassador from the government of Corwin to the government of Earth. It’s as simple as that.”
“Is it? When did you people last have any contact with the rest of the galaxy?”
“Five hundred years ago. But—”
“Five hundred years,” Firnik repeated speculatively. “And now you decide to reopen contact with Earth.” He squinted at Ewing, chin resting on balled fist. “Just like that. Poof! Enter one ambassador. It isn’t just out of sociability, is it, Ewing? What’s the reason behind your visit?”
“I’m not familiar with the latest news in this sector of the galaxy,” Ewing said. “Have you heard any mention of the Klodni?”
“Klodni?” the Sirian repeated. “No. The name doesn’t mean a thing to me. Should it?”
“News travels slowly through the galaxy,” Ewing said. “The Klodni are a humanoid race that evolved somewhere in the Andromeda star cluster. I’ve seen solidographs of them. They’re little greasy creatures, about five feet high, with a sort of ant-like civilization. A war-fleet of Klodni is on the move.”
Firnik rolled an eyebrow upward. He said nothing.
“A couple thousand Klodni ships entered our galaxy about four years ago. They landed on Barnholt—that’s a colony world about a hundred fifty light-years deeper in space than we are—and wiped the place clean. After about a year they picked up and moved on. They’ve been to four planets so far, and no one’s been able to stop them yet. They swarm over a planet and destroy everything they see, then go on to the next world.”
“What of it?”
“We’ve plotted their probable course. They’re going to attack Corwin in ten years or so, give or take one year either way. We know we can’t fight back, either. We just aren’t a militarized people. And we can’t militarize in less than ten years and hope to win.” Ewing paused, sipped at his drink. It was surprisingly mild, he thought.
He went on: “As soon as the nature of the Klodni menace became known, we radioed a message to Earth explaning the situation and asking for help. We got no answer, even figuring in the subetheric lag. We radioed again. Still no reply from Earth.”
“So you decided to send an ambassador,” Firnik said. “Figuring your messages must have gone astray, no doubt. You wanted to negotiate for help at first hand.”
“Yes.”
The Sirian chuckled. “You know something? It’s three hundred years since anybody on Earth last fired anything deadlier than a popgun. They’re total pacifists.”