Collision Course

by Robert Silverberg

  The Archon of Security asked quietly, “Are you certain you were not observed?”

  “They paid no outward attention to our ship. At all times my men remained hidden while observing them. After two hours of observation we left the fourth planet and proceeded to the third, which was also Earthtype and likewise was undergoing construction of a colony. From there we proceeded by warp-drive to a star two light-years away, where similar colonization was taking place. A third visit, seven light-years farther, showed yet another alien colony being built. We concluded from this that a substantial colonial movement is being carried on by these people in their sector of space. After our visit to the third stellar system, we left on our homeward journey and arrived several hours ago.”

  “We’re not alone, then,” said Geoarch Ronholm, half to himself. “Other beings out there, building their colonies too…”

  “Yes,” interrupted McKenzie crisply. “Building their colonies too. I submit that we’ve stumbled over the greatest threat to Earth in our entire history.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Nelson, the Archon of Education, with some fervor. “Just because another species ten thousand light-years away is settling a few worlds, Technarch, you can’t really draw dire conclusions.”

  “I can, and I am. Today the Terran sphere of worlds and the alien sphere are thousands of light-years apart. But we’re expanding constantly, even forgetting the new space-drive for the moment, and so are they. It’s a collision course. Not a collision between spaceships, or planets, or even suns; it’s an inevitable collision between two stellar empires, theirs and ours.”

  “Have you a proposal?” the Geoarch asked.

  “I have,” McKenzie said. “We’ll have to contact these people at once. Not a hundred years from now, not next year, but next week. We’ll have to show them that we’re in the universe, too—and that some kind of accord is going to have to be reached—before the collision comes!”

  There was a ringing moment of silence. McKenzie stared forward, at the standing figure of Laurance flanked by his four crewmen.

  “How do you know,” asked Security Archon Lestrade, “that these—aliens—have any hostile intent at all?”

  “Intent of hostility is irrelevant. They exist; we exist. They colonize their area; we, ours. We’re headed for a collision.”

  “Make your recommendation, Technarch McKenzie,” the Geoarch said mildly.

  McKenzie rose. “I recommend that the newly returned faster-than-light ship be sent out once again, this time carrying a staff of negotiators who will contact the aliens. The negotiators will attempt to discover the purposes of these beings and to arrive at a cooperative entente, in which certain areas of the galaxy will be reserved for one or the other of the colonizing races.”

  “Who’s going to pilot the ship this time?” asked the Archon of Communication.

  McKenzie looked surprised. “Why, we have a trained crew with us today who have proved their capabilities.”

  “They’ve just returned from a month-long expedition,” Archon Wissiner protested. “These men have relatives, families. You can’t send them out again immediately!”

  “Would it be better to risk our one completed faster-than-light ship by putting it in the hands of inexperienced men?” McKenzie asked. “If the Archonate approves, I will present before the end of the day a list of those men I think are suited for treating with the aliens. Once they have been assembled, the ship can leave at once. I leave the matter in your hands.”

  McKenzie returned to his seat. A brief, spiritless debate followed; although several of the Archons privately resented the sometimes high-handed methods of the Technarch, they rarely dared to block his will when it came to a vote. McKenzie had been proved right too often in the past for anyone to go against him now.

  He sat quietly, listening to the discussion and taking part in it only when it was necessary to defend some point. His features reflected none of the bitterness that had welled up within him since the return of the XV-ftl. The homecoming had been ruined for him.

  Aliens building colonies, he thought bleakly. The shiny toy that was the universe was thus permanently tarnished in the Technarch’s mind. He had dreamed of a universe of waiting planets, through which mankind could spread like a swiftly flowing river. But that was not to be; after hundreds of years, another species had been encountered. Equals? It seemed that way—if no worse. Whatever their capabilities, it meant that mankind now was limited, that some or perhaps all of the universe now was barred to them. And in that respect McKenzie himself felt diminished.

  There was nothing to do but negotiate, to salvage some portion of infinity for the empire of Earth. McKenzie sighed. The man best fitted for the task of ambassador to the aliens was himself. But Terran law forbade an Archon to leave Earth; only by renouncing the Archonate could he accompany the negotiating team—and that renunciation would be impossible for McKenzie to embrace.

  He waited, impatient in his seat, for the debate to wind on to its predetermined end. They would have to give in. But not yet.

  Not until Dawson had finished demanding if this extension of mankind past the boundaries of the present sphere was financially wise; not until Wissiner was through questioning the wisdom of the negotiation; not until Croy had exhausted the objection that perhaps the aliens were expanding in the o ther direction; not until Klaus had finished suggesting in a veiled way that immediate war, and not negotiation, was the clearest course.

  It went down the table that way, each man ridding himself of his private phantom, while the five spacemen, weary and travelworn, were treated to the unusual spectacle of watching Earth’s ruling oligarchy quarrel. At length the Geoarch said in his quavering, uncertain voice, “I call for the vote.”

  The vote took place. Each Archon operated a concealed switch beneath his section of the table. To the right for support of the measure, to the left for opposition. Above the table, a gleaming globe registered the secret tally. White was the color of acceptance, black that of defeat. McKenzie was the first to throw his switch; a swirl of pure white danced in the mottled gray depths of the globe. An instant later a spear of black lanced through the white—Wissiner’s vote, McKenzie wondered?—and then another white, another black. Gray predominated, swirling inconclusively. The hue leaned now toward the white, now to the black. Sweat beaded the Technarch’s forehead. The color grew light as votes were shifted.

  At last the globe displayed the pure white of unanimity. The Geoarch said, “The proposal is approved. Technarch McKenzie will prepare plans for negotiating mission and present them to us for our approval. This meeting is adjourned until reconvened by the Technarch.”

  Rising, McKenzie made his way down from the dais and walked toward the five spacemen muttering uncertainly to each other in the center of the room. As he approached, one of them—it was Peterszoon, the big blonde—glared at him with an expression of unmistakable hatred.

  “May we go now, Excellency?” Laurance asked, obviously keeping himself under tight leash.

  “One moment. I’d like to have a word.”

  “Of course, Excellency.”

  McKenzie forced his grave features to contort into the unfamiliar pattern of a smile. “I didn’t come over to apologize; but I want to say that I know you boys deserve a vacation, and I’m sorry you can’t have one yet. Earth needs you to take that ship out. You’re the best we have; that’s why you have to go.”

  He eyed the five of them—Laurance, Peterszoon, Nakamura, Clive, Hernandez. Half-throttled anger smouldered in their eyes. They were defiant; they had every reason to be. But they could see beyond their own momentary rage.

  Laurance said, in his slow, deliberate way, “We’ll have a day or two, won’t we?”

  “At least that much,” the Technarch said. “But as soon as the negotiators are gathered, you’ll have to go.”

  “How many men will you pick? The ship can’t hold much more than nine or ten.”

  “I won’t name many men. A l
inguist, a diplomat, a couple of biophysicists and sociologists. You’ll have enough room.” The technarch smiled again; “I know it’s a lousy trick to send you out on another trip right after you’ve come back. But I know you understand. And—if it’s worth anything to you—you’ll have a Technarch’s gratitude for going.” It was as far as McKenzie could lower himself toward being an ordinary human being. The smile slowly left his face, and he nodded a stiff salute and turned away. Laurance and his men would go. Now to pick the negotiating team.

  THREE

  Dr. Martin Bernard was at his ease, that evening, in his South Kensington flat just off the Cromwell Road. Outside his window drifted London’s murky Sixmonth fog; but Martin Bernard took no notice of that. His windows were opaqued; within the flat, all was cozy, warm, and snug, as he liked it. Ancient music tinkled softly down from the overhead sonic screen: Bach, it was, a harpischord piece. He had the volume control set for minimal audibility, just above the hearing threshold. That way, the Bach made no demands on his attention, but he sensed its presence, gay and lilting.

  Bernard lay sprawled in his vibrochair, cradling a volume of Yeats on his lap while the shoulder-lamp wriggled unhappily in its attempt to keep the beam focussed on the page no matter how Bernard might alter his position. A flask of rare brandy, twenty years old, imported from one of the Procyon worlds, was within easy reach. Bernard had his drink, his music, his poetry, his warmth. What better way, he asked himself, to relax after spending two hours trying to pound the essentials of sociometrics into the heads of an obtuse clump of sophomores?

  Even as he relaxed, he felt a twinge of guilt at his comfort. Academic people were not generally thought of as sybarites, but he told himself that he deserved this comfort. He was the top man in his field. He had, besides, written a successful novel. His poems were highly esteemed and anthologized. He had struggled hard for his present acclaim; now, at forty-three, with the problem of money solved forever and the problem of his second marriage equally neatly disposed of, there was no reason why he should not spend his evenings in this luxurious solitude.

  He smiled. Katha had divorced him: mental cruelty, she had charged, though Bernard thought of himself as one of the least cruel persons who had ever lived. It was simply that his teaching and his writing and his own studies had left him with no time for his wife. She had divorced him; so be it. He realized now, two marriages too late, that he had not really been the marrying sort at all.

  He leaned back, thumbing through Yeats. A wonderful poet, Bernard thought; perhaps the best of the Late Medievals. That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born and dies. Caught in that …

  The phone chimed, shattering the flow. Bernard scowled and elbowed himself to a sitting position; putting down the book, he crossed to the phone cabinet and thumbed the go-ahead button. He had never had an extension rigged that would allow him to answer the phone without getting up. He was not yet sybarite enough to carry on his conversations while flat on his back.

  The screen brightened; but instead of a face, the image of the Technarch’s coat-of-arms appeared. Frowning, Bernard stared at the yellow and blue emblem.

  An impersonal voice said, “Dr. Martin Bernard?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Technarch McKenzie wished to speak to you. Are you alone?”

  “Yes. I’m alone.”

  “Please apply unscrambler.”

  Bernard lowered the toggle at the side of the phone. A moment later, the coat-of-arms gave way to the head and shoulders of the Technarch himself. Bernard stared levelly at the strong, blocky-featured face of McKenzie. He and the Technarch had met only a few times; McKenzie had decorated him with the Order of Merit seven years back, and since then they had crossed paths at several formal scientific functions. But he had heard the Technarch’s familiar booming voice on hundreds of state occasions. Now, Bernard inclined his head respectfully and said, “Hearkening, Technarch.”

  “Good evening, Dr. Bernard. Something unusual has arisen. I think you can help me—help us all.”

  “If it’s possible for me to serve, Technarch…”

  “It is. We’ve sent an experimental faster-than-light ship out, Dr. Bernard. It reached a system ten thousand light-years away. Intelligent colony-building aliens were discovered. We have to negotiate a treaty with them. I want you to head the negotiating team.”

  The short, punchy sentences left Bernard dizzy. He followed the Technarch from one startling statement to the next; the final sentence landed with the impact of a blow.

  “You want—me—to head the negotiating team?” Bernard repeated dazedly.

  “You’ll be accompanied by three other negotiators and a crew of five. The crew is ready; I’m still waiting acceptance from some of the others. Departure will be immediate. The transit time is negligible. The period of negotiation can be as brief as you can make it. You could be back on Earth in less than a month.”

  Bernard felt an instant of vertigo. All seemed swallowed up: the book of poetry, the brandy, the warmth, the snugness— all punctured in a moment by this transatlantic call.

  He said in a hesitant voice, “Why—why am I picked for this assignment?”

  “Because you’re the best of your profession,” replied the Technarch simply. “Can you free yourself of commitments for the next several weeks?”

  “I—suppose so.”

  “I have your acceptance, then, Dr. Bernard?”

  “I—yes, Excellency. I accept.”

  “Your service will not go unrewarded. Report to Archonate Center as soon as is convenient, Doctor—and no later than tomorrow evening New York time. You have my deepest gratitude, Dr. Bernard.”

  The screen went blank.

  Bernard gaped at the contracting dot of light that had been the Technarch’s face a moment before. He stared down suddenly at the floor, dizzy. My God, he thought. What have I let myself in for? An interstellar expedition!

  Then he smiled ironically. The Technarch had just offered him a chance to be one of the first human beings to meet face-to-face with an intelligent non-terrestrial. And here he was, worrying about a temporary separation from his piddling little comfortable nest. I ought to be celebrating, he thought, not worrying. Brandy and vibrochairs can wait. This is the most important thing I’ll ever do in my life!

  He disconnected the sonic screen; the harpsichord music died away in the middle of a twanging cadence. Yeats returned to the bookshelf. He took a final sip of brandy and replaced the flask in the sideboard.

  Within half an hour he had compiled a list of those people who needed to be notified about his departure, and he programmed his robosecretary to make such notification—after he had left. No point in getting into long debates with people over who was going to cover his classes, who was going to read the galleys on his new book. Better to confront people with the fait accompli of his departure and let them make decisions without him.

  Packing was a problem; he winnowed out several fat books, packed two slim ones, some clothing, some memodiscs. He found himself unable to sleep, even after taking a relaxotab, and he rose near dawn to pace his flat in tense anticipation. At 1100 hours he decided to transmat across to New York, but his guidebook told him it would still be early in the morning on the other side of the Atlantic. He waited an hour, dialed ahead for courtesy permission to cross, and set his transmat for the Archonate Center.

  He stepped through, wondering as always at the manner of the transmat’s operation. His thought was cut in half as the field seized hold of him; when he emerged at the other end, he was still in mid-thought.

  Dour-faced Archonate men waited for him.

  “Come this way, Dr. Bernard.”

  He followed, feeling strangely conspicuous, like a sacrificial victim being led to the altar. They led him into an adjoining room whose mo
numentality indicated plainly that it was the private chamber of the Technarch McKenzie, the embodiment of human strength and ambition.

  The Technarch himself was not present in his chambers at the moment. But three other men were, and they came to attention as Bernard entered, looking him over with the tense anticipation of men who were still uncertain of their own positions.

  Bernard studied them.

  To his left, in the far corner of the room, stood a tall, dark-faced man whose lips were drawn down in an austere, almost gloomy scowl. His body was long and angular, seemingly strung together out of rods and pipes. He wore the somber clothes that indicated his affiliation with the Neopuritan movement. Bernard bristled instinctively; he had grown to regard the Neopuritans with open distaste, as men whose values were so far from his that no reconciliation was possible.

  Closer to Bernard stood a second man, shorter, but still a little over six feet in height. He was a cheerfully affable-looking man in his early fifties, with pink close-shaven skin that radiated hearty good health and a sense of enjoyment of life. The third man in the room was short and stocky, with quick, darting black eyes and heavy frown-lines in his forehead. He seemed a packet of energy, contained but ready to burst forth at any unpredictable moment.

  Bernard looked around, hiding his discomfort. “Hello,” he said, before anyone else could speak. “My name’s Martin Bernard, and I’m a sociologist, and one of the somewhat puzzled draftees for this thing. Are you three part of this outfit too, or just here to confer?”

  The ruddy-faced, affable-looking man smiled warmly and put out his hand. Bernard took it. A soft hand, uncalloused, but strong nevertheless. “Roy Stone,” the man announced. “I’m basically a politician, I guess. Officially I’m the understudy for the Archon of Colonial Affairs.”