Perhaps nature is influenced by temperament. Surely only for Detringer would she have obliged by sending a strong inbound current just when the ship’s energy resources had dwindled to no more than memories.
The landing itself was simple enough for a pilot of Detringer’s skill and luck. He brought down the ship, light as a windblown seed, upon the green and inviting surface of the fifth planet. When he shut down the engines for the last time there were some thirty-eight seconds of fuel remaining.
Ichor fell to his ferrominium knees and praised the Godmemory that had remembered to bring them to this place of refuge. But Detringer said, “Let’s see if we can live here before we go maudlin with thanks.”
The fifth world proved hospitable enough. All of the necessities of life could be found with moderate effort, though few of the amenities. Escape was impossible: only an advanced technological civilization could produce the complex fuel needed for the ship’s engines. And a brief aerial survey had shown that the fifth planet, although a picturesque and inviting world, harbored no civilization—nor did it even give any sign of being inhabited by intelligent beings.
By a simple cross-wiring procedure, Ichor prepared himself for the prospect of spending the rest of his life-span in this place. He advised Detringer similarly to accept the inevitable. After all, he pointed out, even if they did somehow obtain fuel, where would they go? The odds against their finding an advanced planetary civilization, even with a well-equipped exploration ship at their disposal, were astronomical. In a small vessel like the Sportster the attempt would be tantamount to suicide.
Detringer was unimpressed by this reasoning. “Better to search and die,” he said, “than vegetate and live.”
“Master,” Ichor pointed out respectfully, “that is heresy.”
“I suppose it is,” Detringer said cheerfully. “But it is how I feel. And my intuition tells me that something will turn up.”
Ichor shuddered and was glad for the sake of his master’s soul that, despite Detringer’s hopes, he was to receive the Unction of Perpetual Solitude.
CAPTAIN Edward Makepeace Macmillan stood in the main control room of the exploration ship Jenny Lind and scanned the tape as it came out of the 1100 Series Coordinating Computer. It was apparent that the new planet presented no dangers within the measuring ability of the ship’s instruments.
Macmillan had come a long way to reach this moment. A brilliant life-sciences major at the University of Taos, Macmillan had gone on to do graduate work in Nucleonic Theory and Control. His doctoral thesis, titled Some Preliminary Notes on Certain Considerations Concerning the (Projected) Science of Interstellar Maneuvering, had been enthusiastically accepted by his committee and had later been successfully published for the general public under the title, Lost and Found in Deepest Space. That, plus his long article in Nature, titled, The Use of Declension Theory in Spacecraft Landing Modalities, had made him the only possible choice to captain America’s first interstellar ship.
He was a tall, handsome, strongly built man. His hair was prematurely flecked with gray, belying his thirty-six years. His reactions concerning navigation were quick and sure and his instinct for the integrity of his ship was awesome.
Less awesome were his dealings with men. Macmillan was cursed with a certain shyness, a diffidence toward others, a knowledge of dubiety that sapped the decision-making process and that, however admirable it might be in a philosopher, was a potential weakness in a leader of men.
A knock came at his door and Colonel Kettelman entered without bothering to be asked. “Looks good down there, hah?” he said.
“The planetary profile is quite favorable,” Macmillan said stiffly. “That’s fine,” Kettelman said, staring uncomprehendingly at the computer tape. “Anvthing interesting about the place?”
“A great deal,” Macmillan said. “Even a long-distance survey has shown what might well be some unique vegetable structures. Additionally, our bacteria scan shows some anomalies, which—”
“I didn’t mean that kind of stuff,” Kettelman said, evincing the natural indifference a career soldier sometimes feels for bugs and plants. “I meant important stuff like alien armies and space fleets and like that.”
“There is no sign of any civilization down there,” Macmillan said. “I doubt we will even find traces of intelligent life.”
“Well, you can never tell,” Kettelman said hopefully. He was a stocky, barrel-chested, and unbending man. He was a veteran of the American Assistance Campaigns of ’34 and had fought as a major in the jungles of western Honduras in the so-called United Fruit War, emerging as a lieutenant colonel. He had received his full colonelcy during the ill-fated New York Insurrection, at which time he had personally led his men in storming the Subtreasury Building and then had held down the 42nd Street Line against the crack Gay Battalion.
Utterly fearless, known as a soldier’s soldier, possessing an impeccable combat record, wealthy in his own right, a friend of many U.S. Senators and Texas millionaires and not unintelligent, he had won the coveted appointment of Commandant of Military Operations aboard the Jenny Lind.
Now he awaited the moment when he would lead his combat team of twenty Marines onto the surface of the fifth planet. The prospect hugely excited him. And, despite the instrument readings, Kettelman knew that anything might be down there waiting to strike and maim and kill—unless he did so first, as he planned to do.
“There is one thing,” Macmillan said. “We have detected a spacecraft on the surface of the planet.”
“Ah,” Kettelman said. “I knew there’d be something. You spotted only one ship?”
“Yes. A small one, displacing less than a twentieth the volume of our craft and apparently unarmed.”
“That’s what they’d like you to believe, of course,” said Kettelman. “I wonder where the others are.”
“What others?”
“The other alien spaceships and crews and ground-to-space weapons systems and all the rest of it, of course.”
“The presence of one alien spacecraft does not logically imply any other alien spacecraft,” Captain Macmillan said.
“No? Listen, Mac, I learned my logic in the jungles of Honduras,” Kettelman said. “The rule there was that if you found one runt with a machete you could be sure of finding another fifty or so hiding in the bushes, waiting to cut your ears off if you gave them a chance. You could get killed if you waited around for abstract proofs.”
“The circumstances were somewhat different,” Captain Macmillan pointed out.
“So what does that matter?”
Macmillan winced and turned away. Talking with Kettelman was painful for him and he avoided it as much as he could. The colonel was a disputatious individual, stubborn, easily driven to wrath, and possessed of many positive opinions, most of which were founded upon a bedrock of nearly invincible ignorance. The captain knew that the antipathy between himself and Kettelman was mutual. He was well aware that the colonel considered him an indecisive and ineffective person except perhaps in his special scientific areas.
Luckily, their areas of command were sharply defined and delineated. Or had been to date.
II
DETRINGER and Ichor stood in a clump of trees and watched as the large alien spacecraft settled down to a faultless landing.
“Whoever is piloting that ship,” Detringer said, “is a master pilot beyond compare. I would like to meet such a being.”
“Doubtless you will get your chance,” Ichor said. “It is surely no accident that, given the entire surface of this planet to choose from, they have elected to put down almost beside us.”
“They must have detected us, of course,” Detringer said. “And they have decided to take a bold line—exactly as I would do, given their position.”
“That makes sense,” Ichor said. “But what will you do, given your position?”
“Why, I’ll take a bold line, of course.”
“This is a historic moment,” Ichor said. “A repre
sentative of the Ferlang people will soon meet the first intelligent aliens our race has ever encountered. How ironic that this opportunity should be vouchsafed to a criminal!”
“The opportunity, as you call it, was forced upon me. I assure you that I did not seek it. And by the way—I think we will say nothing about my little differences with the Ferlang authorities.”
“You mean you’re going to lie?”
“That is a harsh way of putting it,” Detringer said. “Let us say that I am going to spare my people the embarrassment of having a criminal as their first emissary to an alien race.”
“Well—I suppose that will be all right,” Ichor said.
Detringer looked hard at his mechanical servant. “It seems to me, Ichor, that you do not entirely approve of my expediences.”
“No, sir, I do not. But please understand: I am faithful to you without cavil. I would unhesitatingly sacrifice myself for your welfare at any moment. I will serve you unto death—and beyond, if that is possible. But loyalty to a person does not affect one’s religious, social, and ethical beliefs. I love you, sir—but I cannot approve of you.”
“Well, then, I am warned,” Detringer said. “And now back to our alien friends. A port is opening. They are coming out.”
“Soldiers are coming out,” Ichor said.
The new arrivals were bipedal and also had two upper limbs. Each individual had only one head, one mouth, and one nose, as had Detringer himself. They bore no visible tails or antennae. They were obviously soldiers to judge by the equipment they carried. Each individual was heavily laden with what could be deduced to be projectile weapons, gas and explosive grenades, beam projectors, short-range atomics, and much else besides. They wore personal armor and their heads were encased in clear plastic bubbles. There were twenty of them so equipped and one, obviously their leader, who had no visible weaponry. He carried a sort of whippy stick—probably a badge of office—with which he tapped himself on the upper left pedal appendage as he marched at the head of his soldiers.
The soldiers advanced, well spread out, taking momentary concealment behind natural objects and posturally demonstrating an attitude of extreme suspicion and wariness. The officer walked directly forward without taking cover, his mien obviously portraying nonchalance, bravado, or stupidity.
“I don’t think we should skulk around these bushes any longer,” Detringer said. “It is time for us to go forward and meet them with the dignity that befits an emissary of the Ferlang people.”
He stepped forward immediately and strode toward the soldiers, followed by Ichor. Detringer was magnificent at that moment.
EVERYBODY on the Jenny Lind knew about the alien spacecraft only a mile away. So it should have proven no surprise that the alien ship turned out to have had on board an alien who was at that moment advancing boldly to meet Kettelman’s Marines.
But it did prove a surprise. No one was prepared to meet a genuine, honest-to-god, weird-looking alive-and-kicking alien. The occasion opened up too many imponderables. To name just one—what do you say when you finally meet an alien? How do you live up to the awesome historic quality of the moment? Whatever you come up with is going to sound like, Dr. Livingston, I presume? People are going to laugh at you and your words—pompous or banal—for centuries. Meeting an alien has enormous potential for embarrassment.
Both Captain Macmillan and Colonel Kettelman were feverishly rehearsing opening lines and rejecting them and half hoping that the C31 Translating Computer would blow a transistor. The Marines were praying, Jesus, I hope he don’t try to talk to me. Even the ship’s cook was thinking, Christ, I suppose first thing out hell want to know all about what we eat.
But Kettelman was in the lead. He thought, To hell with this— I’m not going to be the first to talk to him. He slowed down to let his men go ahead of him. But his men stopped in their tracks, waiting for the colonel. Captain Macmillan, standing just behind the Marines, also stopped and wished that he hadn’t worn his full-dress uniform, complete with decorations. He was the most resplendent man on the field and he just knew that the alien was going to walk straight over to him and begin talking.
All the Terrans stood still. The alien continued to advance. Embarrassment gave way to panic in the Terran ranks. The Marines looked at the alien and thought, Jesus, what’s happening? They wavered, obviously on the verge of flight. Kettelman saw this and thought, They are going to disgrace the corps and me!
The realization sobered him. Suddenly he remembered the newsmen. Yes, the newsmen! Let the newsmen do it—that was what they were paid for.
“Platoon, halt,” he called, then set his men at port arms.
The alien stopped, perhaps to see what was going on.
“Captain,” Kettelman said to Macmillan, “I suggest that for this historic moment we unleash—I mean break out—the newsmen.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Captain Macmillan said and gave the order to take the newsmen out of stasis and bring them forth immediately.
Then everybody waited until the newsmen came.
THE newsmen were laid out in a special room. A sign on the door read: STASIS—No Admittance Except to Authorized Personnel. Hand-lettered below were the words: Not to Be Awakened Except for Top Story.
Within the room, each stretched out in his own capsule, were four newsmen and one newswoman. They had all agreed that it would be a waste of subjective time for them to live through the uneventful years required for the Jenny Lind to reach any destination at all. So they had all agreed to go into stasis freeze, with the understanding that they would be resuscitated immediately if anything newsworthy occurred. They left the decision as to what constituted news to Captain Macmillan, who had worked as a reporter on the Phoenix Sun during his junior and sophomore years at the University of Taos.
Ramon Delgado, a Scots engineer with a strange life story, received the order to wake up the newspeople. He made the necessary adjustments in their individual life-support systems. In fifteen minutes they were all somewhat groggily conscious and demanding to know what was going on.
“We’ve landed on a planet,” Delgado said. “It’s an Earth-type place, but seems to support no civilization and no indigenous intelligent beings.”
“You woke us up for that?” asked Quebrada of the Southeastern News Syndicate.
“There’s more,” Delgado said. “There is an alien spaceship on this planet and we have contacted an intelligent alien.”
“That’s more like it,” said Millicent Lopez of Woman’s Wear Daily and others. “Did you happen to notice what this alien is wearing?”
“Could you ascertain how intelligent he is?” asked Mateos Upmann of the N.Y. Times and the LA. Times.
“What has he said so far?” asked Angel Potemkin of NBC-CBS-ABC.
“He hasn’t said anything,” Engineer Delgado said. “Nobody has spoken to him yet.”
“Do you mean to say,” said E.K. Quetzala of the Western News Syndicate, “that the first alien ever encountered by the people of Earth is standing out there like a dope and nobody is interviewing him?”
The newspeople rushed out, many of them still trailing tubes and wires, pausing only to pick up their recorders from the Reporters’ Ready Room. Outside, blinking in strong sunlight, three of them picked up the 031 Translating Computer. They all rushed forward again, brushing Marines aside, and surrounded the alien.
Upmann turned on the C31, took one of its microphones and handed another to the alien, who hesitated a moment, then took it.
“Testing, one two, three,” Upmann said. “Did you understand what I said?”
“You said, ‘Testing, one two, three’,” Detringer said and everyone gave a sigh of relief for the first words had finally been spoken to Earthman’s first alien and Upmann was going to look like a real idiot in the history books. But Upmann didn’t care what he looked like as long as he was in the history books, so he went right on interviewing. And the others joined in.
Detringer had to tell what he a
te, how long and how often he slept, describe his sex life and its deviations from the Ferlang norm, his first impressions of Earthmen, his personal philosophy, say how many wives he had and how he got along with them, how many children he had, how it felt to be him. He had to name his occupation, his hobbies, detail his interest or lack of interest in gardening, his recreations. He had to state whether he ever got intoxicated and in what manner, describe his extramarital sexual practices, if any, and what sort of sports he engaged in. He had to give his views on interstellar amity between intelligent races, discuss the advantages and/or disadvantages of having a tail, and much more.
Captain Macmillan, now feeling a little ashamed of himself for neglecting his official duties, came forward and rescued the alien, who was bravely trying to explain the inexplicable and making heavy work of it.
Colonel Kettelman came too for he was, after all, in charge of security and it was his duty to penetrate deeply into the nature and intentions of the alien.
There was a short clash of wills between these two officials concerning who should have the first meeting with Detringer, or whether it should be held jointly. It was finally decided that Macmillan, as symbolic representative of the Earth peoples, should meet first with the alien. But it was understood that this would be a purely ceremonial meeting. Kettelman would meet Detringer later and it was understood that that meeting would be action-oriented.
That solved matters nicely and Detringer went off with Macmillan. The Marines returned to the ship, stacked their arms, and went back to polishing their boots.
Ichor stayed behind. The news representative from Midwest News Briefs had grabbed him for an interview. This representative, Melchior Carrerra, was also commissioned to do articles for Popular Mechanics, Playboy, Rolling Stone, and Automation Engineers’ Digest. It was an interesting interview.
DETRINGER’S talk with Captain Macmillan went very well. They shared relativistic outlooks on most things, both possessed natural tact, and each was willing to attempt a sympathetic understanding of a viewpoint not his own. They liked each other and Captain Macmillan felt with some astonishment that Detringer was less alien to him than was Colonel Kettelman.
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