The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction Megapack(r)

by Robert Silverberg

  Three Mellidani faced him squarely. They were chalk-white and without hair: their eyes were set deep in their round skulls, ringed with massive orbital ridges, veiled from time to time by fast-flickering nictitating membranes, while their mouths—if mouths they were—were but thin lidless slits. Three nostrils formed a squat triangle midway between eyes and mouth, while cupped processes jutting from the sides of the head seemed to equate with ears. Bork was not surprised at this superficial resemblance to the standard humanoid type; there is a certain most efficient pattern of construction for an erect humanoid biped, and virtually all such life adheres to it.

  The emissary said, “I greet you in the name of the Federation of Worlds. My name is Holis Bork; my title, Emissary.”

  The centermost of the aliens moved his lipless mouth; words came forth. The linguistic pattern, too, adhered to norms. “I am Leader this month. My name is unimportant. What does your Federation want with us?

  It was the expected quasi-belligerent response. Twenty years of emissary duties had reduced the operation to a series of conditioned reflexes, so far as Bork was concerned. Stimulus A produced Response B, which was dealt with by means of Technique C.

  He said, “The Federation is composed of four hundred eighty-five worlds scattered throughout some thirty thousand light-years. Its capital and First Planet is Vengo in the Darkir system; its member peoples live in unmatched unity. Current Federation population is twenty-seven billion people. Membership in the Federation will guarantee you free and equal rights, full representation, and the complete benefits of a Galactic civilization that has been in existence for eleven thousand years.”

  He paused triumphantly with soundless fanfare. The array of statistics was calculated to arouse a feeling of awe and lead naturally to the next group of response-leads. The Federation’s psychometrists had perfected this technique over millennia.

  But the Mellidani leader’s reaction jarred Bork. The alien said, “Why is it that the Terrans do not belong to the Federation?”

  Bork had been ready with the next concept-group; he had already begun to bring forth the second phase of his argument when the impact of the Mellidani’s sudden irrelevant question slammed into his nervous system and set the neat circuitry of his mind oscillating wildly.

  It was a dizzy moment. But Bork had his nerves under control almost instantly, and a moment later had formulated a new pat reply he hoped would cover the new situation.

  “The Terrans,” he said, “did not choose to enter the Federation—thereby demonstrating that they lack the wisdom and maturity of a truly Galactic-minded race.”

  * * * *

  It was impossible to tell what emotions were in play behind the alien’s almost inflexible features. Bork found himself trembling; he docketed a mental note to have a neural overhaul when he returned to Vengo.

  The alien said, “You imply by this that the Federation worlds are superior to the Terran worlds. In what way?

  Again Bork’s nerves were jolted. The interview was taking a very unpredictable pattern indeed. Damn those Terrans, he thought. And double-damn Security for allowing them to get a foothold here with an emissary on his way!

  Sweat dribbled down the emissary’s olive-green skin. His military collar was probably drooping by now. He rooted in his mind for some sequence of arguments that would answer the stubborn alien’s question, and at length came up with:

  “The Federation worlds are superior in that they have complete homogeneity of thought, feeling, and purpose. We have a common ground for intellectual endeavor and for commercial traffic. We share laws, works of art, ways of thinking. The Earth-men have deliberately placed themselves beyond the pale of this communion—cut themselves off from every other civilized world of the galaxy.”

  “They have not cut themselves off from us. They came here quite willingly and have lived here during three Leaderships.”

  “They mean to corrupt you,” Bork said desperately. “To lead you away from the right path. They are malicious: unable to enter Galactic society themselves through their own antisocial tendencies, they try now to drag an innocent world into the same quagmire, the same—”

  Bork stopped suddenly. His hands were shaking; his body was bathed in perspiration. He realized gloomily that for the first time in his career he had no notion whatever of the next line of thought to pursue.

  Promotion, glory, past achievements—all down the sink because of failure now, here? He swallowed hard.

  “We’ll continue our discussions tomorrow,” he said hoarsely. “I would not think of keeping you from your daily work.”

  “Very well. Tomorrow the man at my left will be Leader. Address your words then to him.”

  In the state he was in, Bork had little further interest in protocol. He broke the contact hastily and sank back in the cradle of webfoam, tense, sweat-drenched.

  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 millennium, 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, t
he 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. “Care to have a smoke?”

  “Sorry,” the emissary said, repressing his disgust. “We don’t indulge.”

  “Of course. I forgot.” Gambrell smiled apologetically. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

  Bork shrugged. “Not at all.”

  Gambrell flicked the igniting capsule at the cigarette’s tip, waited a moment, then puffed at the other end. He looked utterly relaxed. Bork was sharply tuned for this meeting; every nerve was tight-strung.

  The Earthman said, “All right. Just why have you requested this meeting, Emissary Bork?”

  “You know our purpose here on Mellidan VII?” Bork asked.

  “Certainly. You’re here to enroll the Mellidani in your Federation.”

  Bork nodded. “Our aim is clear to you, then. But why are you here, Major General Gambrell? Why has Earth established this outpost?”

  The Earthman ran one hand lightly through the close-cropped thatch of graying hair that covered most of his scalp. Bork thought of the vestigial topknot that was his only heritage from the past, and smiled smugly. After a moment Gambrell said, “We’re here to keep Mellidan VII from joining the Federation. Is that clear enough?”

  “It is,” Bork said tightly. “May I ask what you hope to gain by this deliberate interference? I suppose you plan to use Mellidan VII as some sort of military base, no doubt.”

  “No.”

  Bork had gained flexibility during the past few days. He shot an instant rejoinder at the Earthman: “In that case you must have some commercial purpose in mind. What?”

  The Earthman shook his head.

  “Let me be perfectly honest with you, Emissary Bork. We don’t have any actual use for Mellidan VII. It’s just too alien a world for oxygen-breathers to use without conversion.”

  Bork frowned. “You have no use for Mellidan VII? But…then…that means you came here solely for the purpose of…of—”

  “Right. Of keeping it out of the Federation’s hands.”

  The man’s arrogance stunned Bork. That Earth should wantonly block a Federating mission for no reason at all—

  “This is a very serious matter,” Bork said.

  “I know. More serious than you yourself think, Emissary Bork. Look here: suppose you tell me why the Federation wants Mellidan VII, now?”

  Bork glared at the infuriatingly calm Earthman. “We want it because…because—”

  He stopped. The question paralleled the ones the Mellidani leader had asked. It produced the same visceral reaction. These basic questions hit deep, he thought. And there were no ready answers for them.

  Gambrell said smoothly, “I see you’re in difficulties. Here’s an answer for you—you want it simply because it’s there. Because for eleven thousand years you’ve Federated every planet you could, swallowed it up in your benevolent arms, thoroughly homogenized its culture into yours and blotted out any minor differences that might have existed. You don’t see any reason to stop now. But you don’t have any possible use for this world, do you? You can’t t
rade with it, you can’t colonize here, you can’t turn it into a vacation resort. For the first time in your considerable history you’ve run up against an inhabited world that’s utterly useless as Federation stock. But you’re trying to Federate it anyway.”

  “We—”

  “Keep quiet,” said the Earthman sharply. “Don’t try to argue, because you don’t know how to argue. Or to think. Vengo’s ruled the roost so long you’ve reduced every cerebral process to a set of conditioned reflexes. And when you strike an exception to a pattern, you just steamroll right on ahead. You find a planet, so you offer it a place in the Federation and proceed to digest it alive. What function does this Federation of yours serve, anyway?”

  Bork was on solid ground here. “It serves as a unifying force that holds together the disparate worlds of the galaxy, bringing order out of confusion.”

  “O.K. I’ll buy that statement, even if it does come rolling out of you automatically.” The Earthman hunched forward and his eyes fixed coldly on Bork’s. “The Federation’s so big and complex that it hasn’t yet learned that it died three thousand years ago. Its function atrophied, dried up, vanished. Foosh! The galaxy is orderly; trade routes are established, patterns of cultural contact built, war forgotten. There’s no longer any need for a benevolent tyranny operating out of Vengo that makes sure the whole thing doesn’t come apart. But still you go on, bringing the joys of Federation from planet to planet, as if the same chaotic situation prevails now that prevailed in those barbaric days when your warlord ancestors first came down out of Vengo to conquer the universe.”

  Bork sat very quietly. He was thinking: the Terran is insane. The things he says have no meaning. The Federation dead? Nonsense!

  “I knew the Earthmen were fools, but I didn’t think they were morons as well,” the emissary said out loud, lightly. “Anyone can see that the Federation is alive and healthy, and will be for eternity to come.”