On the deck below Lessing were the diplomats and the scientists and the service chiefs. Lessing had insisted on this arrangement, not as a further bolstering of his self-esteem but as a hangover from his seafaring days. He was a firm believer in the principle of Unauthorized Personnel Not Allowed On The Bridge. He didn't like to have anybody around except his officers when he had to make decisions—not that there would be many to make in this case. He stared at the clear sky. Cross and Centaur were high in the south, and Jupiter, with Antares, was just rising. He tried to make out the spot of light that would be Starlady. Suddenly there was a brilliance in the heavens, a great sun of vivid green with a core of blazing blue drifting slowly downward.
"All right," he said to Kennedy. "Tell them to switch on the floods on the buoys—and tell them to switch off all the city lights apart from the essential ones."
The glare of lights in the bay came hard on the heels of his command. The brownout of the city took longer. Lessing remembered how long he had had to argue with civic officials about the necessity for this order. He looked shoreward from his high platform, saw the lights going out one by one—the neon signs advertising whisky and biscuits and breakfast foods and beer, two street lamps in every three. While he was watching, the green flare in the sky faded and died. It was suddenly very dark.
There was an eerie flickering along the foreshore. Lessing wondered what it was, then realized that it came from the flaring of matches and lighters as the crowds lighted their cigarettes. He had been against allowing the public so close to the starship's landing place, but in this matter he had been overruled. He was pleased, however, that the bay had been cleared of all pleasure craft and that the entrance had been closed to inward and outward traffic.
It was a long wait. It was some sharp-eyed watcher along the beach who first spotted the spaceship. A long, drawn-out aaahh went up from the crowd. Lessing, Kennedy, and Garwood stared aloft, saw at last the little, but visibly waxing, point of light that was Starlady.
She came in slowly, cautiously. It was all of an hour before the watchers could see the big bulk of her gleaming dimly above the flickering luminescence of her drive. She came in slowly, seemingly at first a little uncertain of her landing place. I should have ordered a complete blackout, thought Lessing. She circled, and then steadied over the rectangle of water marked by the special buoys with their floodlights. With increasing speed she dropped. The wave created by her coming lapped the piles of the pier, drove up in foaming turbulence onto the beach and the road beyond.
Lessing came down from his tower, walked without haste to the head of the steps by which the launch was moored. Kennedy and Garwood followed him. They boarded the launch. The skipper cast off, steered for the dark bulk of the alien ship, for the circle of light that was her air lock. He seemed unimpressed by the momentous occasion. He grunted, "I'd'a thought you'd'a had some o' them admirals and generals along, Cap'n. And a few boys with Owen guns."
"I know these people," said Lessing, "and they know me."
"You're the boss."
They were passing through the line of buoys now. Even the launch skipper fell silent as he looked up to the vast bulk of Starlady. All that he said was, "Can that thing fly?" Then, expertly, he maneuvered his craft alongside the circular, horizontal platform that was the outer valve of the open air lock.
There were people standing in the air lock itself—men and women. One of them stepped forward—it was Korring vis Korring—and caught the launch's painter, snubbed it around a convenient projection. "Welcome aboard, Captain Lessing," he said. His voice was warmly human and came from his mouth, not from a box at his waist.
Lessing stared at the spaceman. He was wearing colorful garments—a sky blue blouse, scarlet trousers, knee-high boots that could have been made of dark blue suede. "Congratulate me," he said.
"Why?" asked Lessing stupidly.
"Because I've got a planet job. I'm no longer chief officer of this wagon … I'm now the local galactic trade commissioner. I'm to work with you."
"But your translator—"
"Oh, that. We brought along a team of experts this time, and we were picking up the programs of your various broadcast stations before we could pick you up in our telescopes. A few hours under the hypno-tutor, and I'm a linguist. So are those who are staying here with me. I'll introduce 'em all when I have time. There's a professor of linguistics, a sociologist, a dietician, a biologist, and the expert on women's fashions. Oh, and a priest. I'm sure that you have your own religion, but he thinks … he knows, rather … that ours is better. He's still inside getting his baggage packed. He was deep in prayer while the rest of us were packing ours."
Lessing stepped from the launch onto the platform. He shook hands with the professor of linguistics, a scholarly, birdlike, gray-haired man. He shook hands with the sociologist, who was short and fat and merry. He bowed stiffly to the dietician and the biologist, both of whom were women, and attractive women. He wasn't sure whether to shake hands with or bow to the fashion expert then decided that such things were probably the same all through the galaxy as on Earth, and shook hands. He was going to shake hands with the lean, scarlet-robed priest who had just come into the air lock, but Korring, with an unobtrusive gesture, restrained him. The priest raised his arms in benediction and intoned, "The blessing be upon you, my son." Lessing felt embarrassed and vaguely hostile.
They all went then into one of the big ship's public rooms. Soft-footed stewardesses served drinks. Lessing tried to hurry matters, told Korring vis Korring of the crowds of people who were waiting ashore for some word of what was happening. "Let them wait," said the spaceman. "Our cargo consists of only luxury goods."
"Life without luxury is drab, my son," said the priest.
Lessing looked at him with a fresh interest. His figure was lean, but his face was not the face of an ascetic. It was the face of a man who has enjoyed, and who is still enjoying, all the good things of life. Perhaps, he thought, their religion has its points—
"We shall require accommodation," said Korring. "We shall be staying here after the ship leaves. I take it that you will make the necessary arrangements."
"I will. But I should like to find out now what cargo you have brought and what goods you want in exchange. We have a warehouse full of cargo—whisky, gin, all sorts of wines, all sorts of cigarettes and tobacco. There are representatives of other nations waiting ashore, and all of them have brought samples of wares in which you may be interested. Then there's the problem of how you're going to get the cargo from out of your ship onto the lighters and from the lighters into your ship. I'd like to get our stevedore out here to talk it over with whoever has relieved you as chief officer."
"All in good time, Lessing," laughed Korring. "Try to remember that you're no longer a seaman, just as I'm no longer a spaceman. We're persons of importance on this planet now. The world waits upon our decisions—and while the world is waiting, we have another drink."
They had another drink. It was some strong, oversweet and overscented spirit. Lessing would have preferred beer. But he had another drink, and then another, and the next morning, when he awoke in a strange bunk in a strange cabin with a splitting headache, he had vague memories of trying to teach the spacemen some of the bawdier drinking songs in his repertoire and had more vague memories of their having reciprocated in kind.
A stewardess brought him in a cup of steaming fluid and a white capsule. Lessing assumed that the capsule would be good for his headache. It was. He was standing in front of the mirror when Korring came in and told him that the jar of white cream on the shelf was a depilatory. Lessing shaved—if the smearing on and off of cream can be called shaving—and dressed, and felt a lot better. He found Kennedy in the adjoining cabin and was told that Garwood had prevailed upon the launch skipper to take him ashore when the party started getting rough. Garwood was married and was a little afraid of his wife. There would be, said Kennedy, a launch on hail by the air lock until required.
&
nbsp; The sun was high in the sky when at last Lessing and the party from the ship boarded the waiting launch and made their way shoreward. The crowds still packed the road inshore from the beach, and the Station Pier was alive with people. Of the aliens, only Korring was unperturbed. He stood in the bows of the launch, letting the wind play with the black cloak that he was wearing over his finery. He looked, thought Lessing, like a character out of a comic strip.
The launch pulled up alongside the stage to a great coruscation of flashbulbs. Korring stepped down from the bows to allow Lessing to lead the way up the steps. The party from the ship, after a minute or so, stood facing the civil and military dignitaries. Lessing performed the introductions, explained what the arrangement was. Then, at Korring's insistence, a visit was paid immediately to the warehouse in which the goods were stocked. He smiled his approval. He said, "We can take perhaps half of this, and we will discharge an equivalent volume of cargo. The cargo from the ship will have to be discharged first, of course—"
"I've discharged and loaded ships before," said Lessing dryly. "In any case, you still haven't told me what arrangements you want for handling cargo. We'll send lighters and waterside workers out to your ship. What happens then?"
"We discharge our cargo into them," said Korring.
"Yes. But how?"
"You'll see. Come out with me in the first lighter."
Lessing did so. The dozen or so waterside workers who were in the craft were not awed by the civil and military dignitaries who rode with them and were even less awed by Korring. Lessing smiled as he heard him referred to as Superman and Mandrake the Magician. Korring ignored them, told Lessing to tell the tug to pull around to the other side of the ship. There was a larger air lock there, and obviously one used for cargo rather than for personnel.
The lighter was hardly fast when the first bale came floating out and settled with a thud into the open hold. As it was followed by a second and a third, the Earthmen gawked.
"Just a simple application of antigravity," smiled the spaceman.
"Could we have it?" asked the Air commodore who was one of those present. His voice was pleading. "Could we have it?"
"No," said Korring flatly. He said to Lessing, "We aren't stevedores. I suggest that you call a boat and have us taken ashore again. There is still the matter of the accommodation for myself and my people to put in hand. Also, I would like to see your city and your shops."
"You stay in charge, Kennedy," said Lessing. He waved to one of the official launches.
"I think I'll stay here too," said the Air commodore, still looking at the stream of bales with fascination.
"As you please," said Korring. "But I must warn you that there are armed guards throughout the ship who have orders to shoot any unauthorized visitor."
"A taste of his own medicine," laughed one of the wharfies.
The airman did not hear him. When Lessing looked back from the launch he saw him still standing there, still staring at the stream of merchandise flowing from the ship as though on an invisible conveyor belt.
That, so far as Earth was concerned, was the beginning of interstellar trade. At intervals of roughly a week, the big ships dropped down, each landing in Port Phillip Bay, which had become the world's first spaceport. All sorts of exotic drinks and foodstuffs they brought, and all sorts of fascinating gadgets. There were cameras that took photographs in three dimensions—the result, if a portrait, looking like a little statuette mounted in a cube of clear plastic. There were all sorts of devices that made direct use of solar power—for cooking, for the warming of houses, for the motivation of light machinery. There were bales of the marvelous synthetic cloth that represented the idea toward which all of Earth's manufacturers of synthetic fabrics were striving.
They took away whisky and cigarettes, brandy and chocolate, wine and honey, books and paintings. They took away things of value and things that most Earthmen considered trash. They took away living animals of every species to stock the interstellar zoos throughout the galaxy.
Malvar Korring vis Korring and the biologist, the slim brunette Edile Kular var Kular, who was his wife, stayed. The other technicians and experts came and went. The aliens were not unpopular guests in the hotel that they had made their headquarters. The priest, Glandor, stayed also. (Lessing was never able to work out the system of nomenclature used by the aliens. It involved complex family relationships, and the priesthood was held to be related by bonds of love to all men and women.)
The priest stayed, and he was joined after a while by more scarlet-robed priests and priestesses; all of them young, all of them attractive. A church was built to his specifications on the outskirts of the city. Lessing was not particularly interested in religion and did not know, for a long time, what went on in the building. He did not know, in fact, until he accorded an interview to a delegation of representative churchmen in his office.
"Mr. Lessing," said their leader, "these people are pagans. They preach the gratification of every lust, every desire. They say, What shall it profit a man if he die before he has lived?"
"Fair enough," said Lessing.
"But, Mr. Lessing, you don't understand. We, in this state, have always prided ourselves upon our rectitude. In Victoria, if nowhere else in Australia, the Sabbath is still the Sabbath. These aliens are desecrating the Sabbath."
"How?" asked Lessing, interested.
"In that so-called temple of theirs they serve alcoholic liquor to all comers. There is music—profane, not sacred music—and dancing. There is at least tacit encouragement of immorality."
"Immorality?" asked Lessing. "What do you mean by the word? Usury was once one of the seven deadly sins—but your churches are now among the usurers themselves. Murder is an immoral act, and so is lying—"
"You know what I mean," said the churchman. "What we want to know is this—what are you doing about it?"
"Nothing," said Lessing. "I am merely the trade commissioner. These people have signed a treaty with the sovereign government of this country—this country, not this state—giving them, among other things, freedom to make converts to their religion. It may be an odd one—but there have been some odd ones on this planet. There still are, in all probability."
That, as far as Lessing was concerned, was that.
But when trouble came—and it was not long in coming—it came not from the churches but from those who were, officially, their enemies. The big breweries, who are also the hotel owners, hate competition. It was never proved that they were the paymasters of the mob that destroyed the aliens' temple, but the riot was too well organized to have been spontaneous. The high priest was killed; two of the priestesses were murdered. A dozen earthly converts lost their lives.
It was Korring vis Korring who brought the news to Lessing, bursting into his hotel room and shaking him into wakefulness.
"Lessing," he said. "I like you. I'm telling you to get out and to take any friends of yours with you."
Lessing was still drowsy. "Why?" he asked vaguely.
"Because, my friend, we're pulling out. All of us. We're pulling out before the retaliation starts."
"Retaliation? What for?"
"What for, you ask! A mob of puritans or wowsers or whatever you call them has just destroyed the temple. There has been bloodshed, murder. Our fleet is already in orbit about your planet and will be opening fire in a matter of minutes."
"What?" Lessing was fully awake now. He sat up in the bed and caught Korring vis Korring's arm. "Korring," he said quietly, "tell me something. Were you people as ignorant of Earth as you made out at our first contact?"
"Let go of me!" snarled Korring.
"Not so fast. Tell me, did you pick a state notorious for its blue laws, its restrictive legislation, in which to make your headquarters, in which your missionaries could start preaching their gospel? Was it deliberate?"
"Let me go!" shouted the spaceman, breaking free. He was through the door in a second. Lessing, following, tripped in his bedclothes
and fell heavily to the floor. When he got out into the corridor he found that the rooms in which the aliens had lived were all empty. He had to wait a long time for the elevator to come back up to his floor. Then, at the hotel entrance, the night porter informed him that the "space ladies and gentlemen" had just been picked up by some sort of aircraft.
All that Lessing could do was to use the telephone. But it is one thing knowing whom to call and another thing to convince them of the truth of what you are saying. From the politicians and service chiefs he got little joy. When at last, in desperation, he thought of calling the city's high-ranking police officers, it was too late. The telephone went dead just as the first rumble of dreadful thunder deafened him, just as the first glare of the aliens' lightning blinded his eyes.
He remembered little of what happened afterward. He was a seaman, and his instinct was to make for the water. Kennedy was with him, and Garwood, and Garwood's young wife. Somehow they passed unscathed through the fire and the falling wreckage; somehow they found a car and in it joined the press of refugees making for the bay. Something hit Lessing—he never found out what it was—and he lost consciousness. He recovered when the cold salt spray drove over his face, and realized that he was in an overcrowded, open launch just clear of the Heads.
There were the lights of a ship toward which they were steering.
Lessing was not surprised when he found that for him the business had ended where it started, felt a sense of the essential fittingness of things when he dragged himself painfully up the pilot ladder and found himself standing on the familiar deck of his old ship, the Woollabra.
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 Page 23