“Never heard anything like it.” For a while, the supersonics of the various creatures interfered with one another.
“It’s a fact. It is simply the nature of the beast.”
And with that, they were at the Secretariat of Defense.
The five Diaboli stood side by side along the table. They stood because their anatomy did not admit of anything that could correspond to “sitting.”
On the other side of the table, five Earthmen stood as well. It would have been more convenient for the humans to sit but, understandably, there was no desire to make the handicap of smaller size any more pronounced than it already was. The table was a rather wide one; the widest, in fact, that could be conveniently obtained. This was out of respect for the human nose, for from the Diaboli, slightly so as they breathed, much more so when they spoke, there came the gentle and continuous drift of hydrogen sulfide. This was a difficulty rather unprecedented in diplomatic negotiations.
Ordinarily the meetings did not last for more than half an hour, and at the end of this interval the Diaboli ended their conversations without ceremony and turned to leave. This time, however, the leave-taking was interrupted. A man entered, and the five human negotiators made way for him. He was tall, taller than any of the other Earthmen, and he wore a uniform with the ease of long usage. His face was round and his eyes cold and steady. His black hair was rather thin but as yet untouched by gray. There was an irregular blotch of scar tissue running from the point of his jaw downward past the line of his high, leather-brown collar. It might have been the result of a hand energy-ray, wielded by some forgotten human enemy in one of the five wars in which the man had been an active participant.
“Sirs,” said the Earthman who had been chief negotiator hitherto, “may I introduce the Secretary of Defense?”
The Diaboli were somewhat shocked and, although their expressions were in repose and inscrutable, the sound plates on their foreheads vibrated actively. Their strict sense of hierarchy was disturbed. The Secretary was only a Two-leg, but by Two-leg standards, he outranked them. They could not properly conduct official business with him.
The Secretary was aware of their feelings but had no choice in the matter. For at least ten minutes, their leaving must be delayed and no ordinary interruption could serve to hold back the Diaboli.
“Sirs,” he said, “I must ask your indulgence to remain longer this time.”
The central Diabolus replied in the nearest approach to English any Diabolus could manage. Actually, a Diabolus might be said to have two mouths. One was hinged at the outermost extremity of the jawbone and was used in eating. In this capacity, the motion of the mouth was rarely seen by human beings, since the Diaboli much preferred to eat in the company of their own kind, exclusively. A narrower mouth opening, however, perhaps two inches in width, could be used in speaking. It pursed itself open, revealing the gummy gap where a Diabolus’ missing incisors ought to have been. It remained open during speech, the necessary consonantal blockings being performed by the palate and back of the tongue. The result was hoarse and fuzzy, but understandable.
The Diabolus said, “You will pardon us, already we suffer.” And by his forehead, he twittered unheard, “They mean to suffocate us in their vile atmosphere. We must ask for larger poison-absorbing cylinders.”
The Secretary of Defense said, “I am in sympathy with your feelings, and yet this may be my only opportunity to speak with you. Perhaps you would do us the honor to eat with us.”
The Earthman next the Secretary could not forbear a quick and passing frown. He scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper and passed it to the Secretary, who glanced momentarily at it.
It read, “No. They eat sulfuretted hay. Stinks unbearably.” The Secretary crumbled the note and let it drop.
The Diabolus said, “The honor is ours. Were we physically able to endure your strange atmosphere for so long a time, we would accept most gratefully.”
And via forehead, he said with agitation, “They cannot expect us to eat with them and watch them consume the corpses of dead animals. My cud would never be sweet again.”
“We respect your reasons,” said the Secretary. “Let us then transact our business now. In the negotiations that have so far proceeded, we have been unable to obtain from your government, in the persons of you, their representatives, any clear indication as to what the boundaries of your sphere of influence are in your own minds. We have presented several proposals in this matter.”
“As far as the territories of Earth are concerned, Mr. Secretary, a definition has been given.”
“But surely you must see that this is unsatisfactory. The boundaries of Earth and your lands are nowhere in contact. So far, you have done nothing but state this fact. While true, the mere statement is not satisfying.”
“We do not completely understand. Would you have us discuss the boundaries between ourselves and such independent human kingdoms as that of Vega?”
“Why, yes.”
“That cannot be done, sir. Surely, you realize that any relations between ourselves and the sovereign realm of Vega cannot be possibly any concern of Earth. They can be discussed only with Vega.”
“Then you will negotiate a hundred times with the hundred human world systems?”
“It is necessary. I would point out, however, that the necessity is imposed not by us but by the nature of your human organization.”
“Then that limits our field of discussion drastically.” The Secretary seemed abstracted. He was listening, not exactly to the Diaboli opposite, but, rather, it would seem, to something at a distance.
And now there was a faint commotion, barely heard from outside the Secretariat. The babble of distant voices, the brisk crackle of energy-guns muted by distance to nearly nothingness, and the hurried click-clacking of police hoppers.
The Diaboli showed no indication of hearing, nor was this simply another affectation of politeness. If their capacity for receiving supersonic sound waves was far more delicate and acute than almost anything human ingenuity had ever invented, their reception for ordinary sound waves was rather dull.
The Diabolus was saying, “We beg leave to state our surprise. We were of the opinion that all this was known to you.”
A man in police uniform appeared in the doorway. The Secretary turned to him -and, with the briefest of nods, the policeman departed.
The Secretary said suddenly and briskly, “Quite. I merely wished to ascertain once again that this was the case. I trust you will be ready to resume negotiations tomorrow?”
“Certainly, sir.”
One by one, slowly, with a dignity befitting the heirs of the universe, the Diaboli left.
An Earthman said, “I’m glad they refused to eat with us.”
“I knew they couldn’t accept,” said the Secretary, thoughtfully. “They’re vegetarian. They sicken thoroughly at the very thought of eating meat. I’ve seen them eat, you know. Not many humans have. They resemble our cattle in the business of eating. They bolt their food and then stand solemnly about in circles, chewing their cuds in a great community of thought. Perhaps they intercommunicate by a method we are unaware of. The huge lower jaw rotates horizontally in a slow, grinding process--”
The policeman had once more appeared in the doorway.
The Secretary broke off, and called, “You have them all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have Altmayer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The crowd had gathered again when the five Diaboli emerged from the Secretariat. The schedule was strict. At 3:00 p.m. each day they left their suite and spent five minutes walking to the Secretariat. At 3:35, they emerged therefrom once again and returned to their suite, the way being kept clear by the police. They marched stolidly, almost mechanically, along the broad avenue.
Halfway in their trek there came the sounds of shouting men. To most of the crowd, the word
s were not clear but there was the crackle of an energy-gun and the pale blue fluorescence split the air overhead. Police wheeled, their own energy-guns drawn, hoppers springing seven feet into the air, landing delicately in the midst of groups of people, touching none of them, jumping again almost instantly. People scattered and their voices were joined to the general uproar.
Through it all, the Diaboli, either through defective hearing or excessive dignity, continued marching as mechanically as ever.
At the other end of the gathering, almost diametrically opposing the region of excitement, Richard Sayama Altmayer stroked his nose in a moment of satisfaction. The strict chronology of the Diaboli had made a split-second plan possible. The first diversionary disturbance was only to attract the attention of the police. It was now--
And he fired a harmless sound pellet into the air.
Instantly, from four directions, concussion pellets split the air. From the roofs of buildings lining the way, snipers fired.
Each of the Diaboli, torn by the shells, shuddered and exploded as the pellets detonated within them. One by one, they toppled.
And from nowhere, the police were at Altmayer’s side. He stared at them with some surprise.
Gently, for in twenty years he had lost his fury and learned to be gentle, he said, “You come quickly, but even so you come too late.” He gestured in the direction of the shattered Diaboli.
The crowd was in simple panic now. Additional squadrons of police, arriving in record time, could do nothing more than herd them off into harmless directions.
The policeman, who now held Altmayer in a firm grip, taking the sound gun from him and inspecting him quickly for further weapons, was a captain by rank. He said, stiffly, “I think you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Altmayer. You’ll notice you’ve drawn no blood.” And he, too, waved toward where the Diaboli lay motionless.
Altmayer turned, startled. The creatures lay there on their sides, some in pieces, tattered skin shredding away, frames distorted and bent, but the police captain was correct. There was no blood, no flesh. Altmayer’s lips, pale and stiff, moved soundlessly.
The police captain interpreted the motion accurately enough. He said, “You are correct, sir, they are robots.”
And from the great doors of the Secretariat of Defense the true Diaboli emerged. Clubbing policemen cleared the way, but another way, so that they need not pass the sprawled travesties of plastic and aluminum which for three minutes had played the role of living creatures.
The police captain said, “I’ll ask you to come without trouble, Mr. Altmayer. The Secretary of Defense would like to see you.”
“I am coming, sir.” A stunned frustration was only now beginning to overwhelm him.
Geoffrey Stock and Richard Altmayer faced one another for the first time in almost a quarter of a century, there in the Defense Secretary’s private office. It was a rather straitlaced office: a desk, an armchair, and two additional chairs. All were a dull brown in color, the chairs being topped by brown foamite which yielded to the body enough for comfort, not enough for luxury. There was a micro-viewer on the desk and a little cabinet big enough to hold several dozen opto-spools. On the wall opposite the desk was a trimensional view of the old Dauntless, the Secretary’s first command.
Stock said, “It is a little ridiculous meeting like this after so many years. I find I am sorry.”
“Sorry about what, Jeff?” Altmayer tried to force a smile, “I am sorry about nothing but that you tricked me with those robots.”
“You were not difficult to trick,” said Stock, “and it was an excellent opportunity to break your party. I’m sure it will be quite discredited after this. The pacifist tries to force war; the apostle of gentleness tries assassination.”
“War against the true enemy,” said Altmayer sadly. “But you are right. It is a sign of desperation that this was forced on me.” --Then, “How did you know my plans?”
“You still overestimate humanity, Dick. In any conspiracy the weakest points are the people that compose it. You had twenty-five co-conspirators. Didn’t it occur to you that at least one of them might be an informer, or even an employee of mine?”
A dull red burned slowly on Altmayer’s high cheekbones. “Which one?” he said.
“Sorry. We may have to use him again.”
Altmayer sat back in his chair wearily. “What have you gained?”
“What have you gained? You are as impractical now as on that last day I saw you; the day you decided to go to jail rather than report for induction. You haven’t changed.”
Altmayer shook his head, “The truth doesn’t change.”
Stock said impatiently, “If it is truth, why does it always fail? Your stay in jail accomplished nothing. The war went on. Not one life was saved. Since then, you’ve started a political party; and every cause it has backed has failed. Your conspiracy has failed. You’re nearly fifty, Dick, and what have you accomplished? Nothing.”
Altmayer said, “And you went to war, rose to command a ship, then to a place in the Cabinet. They say you will be the next Coordinator. You’ve accomplished a great deal. Yet success and failure do not exist in themselves. Success in what? Success in working the ruin of humanity. Failure in what? In saving it? I wouldn’t change places with you. Jeff, remember this. In a good cause, there are no failures; there are only delayed successes.”
“Even if you are executed for this day’s work?”
“Even if I am executed. There will be someone else to carry on, and his success will be my success.”
“How do you envisage this success? Can you really see a union of worlds, a Galactic Federation? Do you want Santanni running our affairs? Do you want a Vegan telling you what to do? Do you want Earth to decide its own destiny or to be at the mercy of any random combination of powers?”
“We would be at their mercy no more than they would be at ours.”
“Except that we are the richest. We would be plundered for the sake of the depressed worlds of the Sirius Sector.”
“And pay the plunder out of what we would save in the wars that would no longer occur.”
“Do you have answers for all questions, Dick?”
“In twenty years we have been asked all questions, Jeff.”
“Then answer this one. How would you force this union of yours on unwilling humanity?”
“That is why I wanted to kill the Diaboli.” For the first time, Altmayer showed agitation. “It would mean war with them, but all humanity would unite against the common enemy. Our own political and ideological differences would fade in the face of that.”
“You really believe that? Even when the Diaboli have never harmed us? They cannot live on our worlds. They must remain on their own worlds of sulfide atmosphere and oceans which are sodium sulfate solutions.”
“Humanity knows better, Jeff. They are spreading from world to world like an atomic explosion. They block space-travel into regions where there are unoccupied oxygen worlds, the kind we could use. They are planning for the future; making room for uncounted future generations of Diaboli, while we are being restricted to one corner of the Galaxy, and fighting ourselves to death. In a thousand years we will be their slaves; in ten thousand we will be extinct. Oh, yes, they are the common enemy. Mankind knows that. You will find that out sooner than you think, perhaps.”
The Secretary said, “Your party members speak a great deal of ancient Greece of the preatomic age. They tell us that the Greeks were a marvelous people, the most culturally advanced of their time, perhaps of all times. They set mankind on the road it has never yet left entirely. They had only one flaw. They could not unite. They were conquered and eventually died out. And we follow in their footsteps now, eh?”
“You have learned your lesson well, Jeff.”
“But have you, Dick?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did the Greeks have no common enemy against whom they could unite?”
&n
bsp; Altmayer was silent.
Stock said, “The Greeks fought Persia, their great common enemy. Was it not a fact that a good proportion of the Greek states fought on the Persian side?”
Altmayer said finally, “Yes. Because they thought Persian victory was inevitable and they wanted to be on the winning side.”
“Human beings haven’t changed, Dick. Why do you suppose the Diaboli are here? What is it we are discussing?”
“I am not a member of the government.”
“No,” said Stock, savagely, “but I am. The Vegan League has allied itself with the Diaboli.”
“I don’t believe you. It can’t be.”
“It can be and is. The Diaboli have agreed to supply them with five hundred ships at any time they happen to be at war with Earth. In return, Vega abandons all claims to the Nigellian star cluster. So if you had really assassinated the Diaboli, it would have been war, but with half of humanity probably fighting on the side of your so-called common enemy. We are trying to prevent that.”
Altmayer said slowly, “I am ready for trial. Or am I to be executed without one?”
Stock said, “You are still foolish. If we shoot you, Dick, we make a martyr. If we keep you alive and shoot only your subordinates, you will be suspected of having turned state’s evidence. As a presumed traitor, you will be quite harmless in the future.”
And so, on September 5th, 2788, Richard Sayama Altmayer, after the briefest of secret trials, was sentenced to five years in prison. He served his full term. The year he emerged from prison, Geoffrey Stock was elected Coordinator of Earth.
3--December 21, 2800
Simon Devoire was not at ease. He was a little man, with sandy hair and a freckled, ruddy face. He said, “I’m sorry I agreed to see you, Altmayer. It won’t do you any good. It might do me harm.”
Altmayer said, “I am an old man. I won’t hurt you.” And he was indeed a very old man somehow. The turn of the century found his years at two thirds of a century, but he was older than that, older inside and older outside. His clothes were too big for him, as if he were shrinking away inside them. Only his nose had not aged; it was still the thin, aristocratic, high-beaked Altmayer nose.