The Star Beast (27 page)

“They haven’t agreed. They will.”

“I admire your confidence, boss. They strike me as being as stubborn as Mrs. Stuart. Speaking of such, Ftaeml spoke to me while you were bickering with her. He says they are getting insistent about the Stuart kid. Now that you know he’s going shouldn’t we quiet them down? Ftaeml is jittery. He says the only thing that restrains them from giving us the works is that it would displease our old pal Lummox.”

“No,” answered Kiku, “we do not tell them. Nor do we tell Ftaeml. I want him to remain apprehensive.”

Greenberg chewed a knuckle. “Boss,” he said slowly, “isn’t that asking for trouble? Or do you have a hunch that they aren’t the heavyweights they claim to be? If it comes to a slugging match, can we outslug them?”

“I doubt it extremely. But the Stuart boy is my hole card.”

“I suppose so. Far be it from me to quote you-know-who…but if the risk is that great, aren’t the people entitled to know?”

“Yes. But we can’t tell them.”

“How’s that again?”

Mr. Kiku frowned. “Sergei,” he said slowly, “this society has been in crisis ever since the first rocket reached our Moon. For three centuries scientists and engineers and explorers have repeatedly broken through to new areas, new dangers, new situations; each time the political managers have had to scramble to hold things together, like a juggler with too much in the air. It’s unavoidable.

“But we have managed to keep a jury-rigged republican form of government and to maintain democratic customs. We can be proud of that. But it is not now a real democracy and it can’t be. I conceive it to be our duty to hold this society together while it adjusts to a strange and terrifying world. It would be pleasant to discuss each problem, take a vote, then repeal it later if the collective judgment proved faulty. But it’s rarely that easy. We find ourselves oftener like pilots of a ship in a life-and-death emergency. Is it the pilot’s duty to hold powwows with passengers? Or is it his job to use his skill and experience to try to bring them home safely?”

“You make it sound convincing, boss. I wonder if you are right?”

“I wonder also.” Mr. Kiku went on, “I intended to hold the conference with the Hroshii tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. I’ll tell Ftaeml. They ought to stay quiet overnight.”

“But, since they are anxious, we will postpone until the following day and let them grow still more anxious.” Kiku thought. “Have Ftaeml tell them this. Our customs require that a party wishing to negotiate send presents ahead; therefore they must send us presents. Tell them that the lavishness of the gifts gauge the seriousness of the matter to be discussed; too poor a gift will prejudice their petition.”

Greenberg frowned. “You have some swindle in mind, but I miss the point. Ftaeml knows that our customs don’t call for it.”

“Can you convince him that this is a custom which he has not encountered? Or can you take him into your confidence? I see conflict in him; his loyalty is to his clients but his sympathies appear to be with us.”

“I had better not try to kid him. But getting a Rargyllian to lie when he is interpreting professionally… I doubt if he can.”

“Then phrase it so that it is not a lie. Tell him that it is a very old custom…which is true…and that we resort to it only on sufficiently important occasions…which this is. Give him an out, let him see your purpose, gain a sympathetic translation.”

“Can do. But why, boss? Just for bulge?”

“Precisely. We are negotiating from weakness; it is imperative that we start with the upper hand. I have hopes that the symbolism of the petitioner bearing presents is as universal as we have found it to be up to now.”

“Suppose they won’t kick through with the loot?”

“Then we sit tight until they change their minds.” Kiku added, “Start selecting your team. Let me see a list tomorrow.”

Greenberg groaned. “I was going to turn in early.”

“Never count on it in this business. Oh yes…as soon as the conference is over, send a good man… Peters, perhaps…up to their ship to see what changes are needed for human passengers. Then we’ll tell the Hroshii what we require.”

“Wait a minute, boss. I prefer one of our own ships. How do you know they’ve got room for us?”

“Our ships will follow. But the Hroshia Lummox goes with them and young Stuart goes with Lummox, therefore our mission goes in their ship in order that the boy will be accompanied by humans.”

“I see. Sorry.”

“There will be room. They will leave their own mission behind at this same time…or no one will go. One hundred Hroshii, to pluck a figure, will certainly vacate living space for one hundred of our sort.”

“In other words, boss,” Greenberg said softly, “you are insisting on hostages.”

“‘Hostage’,” Mr. Kiku said primly, “is a word that no diplomat should ever use.” He turned back to his desk.

The ground floor auditorium of the Spatial Affairs building was selected for the conference because its doors were large enough and its floors strong enough. It might have been safer to hold it at the space port, as Dr. Ftaeml urged, but Mr. Kiku insisted on the Hroshii coming to him for reasons of protocol.

Their presents preceded them.

The gifts were stacked on both sides of the great hall and were lavish in quantity; their values and qualities were still unknown. The departmental xenologists were as eager as a child faced with birthday presents, but Mr. Kiku had ordered them to hold off until the conference was over.

Sergei Greenberg joined Mr. Kiku in the retiring room behind the rostrum as the Hroshii delegation entered the hall. He looked worried. “I don’t like this, boss.”

Kiku looked up. “Why not?”

Greenberg glanced at the others present—Mr. MacClure and a double for the Secretary General. The double, a skilled actor, nodded and went back to studying the speech he was about to deliver, but MacClure said sharply, “What’s the trouble, Greenberg? Those devils up to something?”

“I hope not.” Greenberg addressed Kiku, “I checked arrangements from the air and they look good. We’ve got the Boulevard of the Suns barricaded from here to the port and enough reserves on each side for a small war. Then I picked up the head of their column as it left the port and flew above it. They dropped off reserves of their own about every quarter of a mile and set up gear of some sort at each strong point. It might just be communication links back to their ship. I doubt it. I think it must be weapons.”

“So do I,” agreed Kiku.

The Secretary said worriedly, “Now look here, Mr. Kiku…”

“If you please, Mr. MacClure. Sergei, the Chief of Staff reported this earlier. I advised the Secretary General that we should make no move unless they try to pass our barricades.”

“We could lose a lot of men.”

“So we could. But what will
you
do, Sergei, when you are required to enter a stranger’s camp to palaver? Trust him completely? Or try to cover your retreat?”

“Mmm…yes.”

“I consider this the most hopeful sign we have had yet. If those are weapons, as I hope they are, it means that they do not regard us as negligible opponents. One does not set up artillery against mice.” He looked around. “Shall we go? I think we have let them stew long enough. Ready, Arthur?”

“Sure.” The Secretary-General’s double chucked his script aside. “That boy Robbins knows how to write a speech. He doesn’t load up a sentence with sibilants and make me spray the first five rows.”

“Good.” They went in, the actor first, then the Secretary, then the Permanent Under Secretary followed by his assistant.

Of the long procession of Hroshii that had left the space port only a dozen had entered the auditorium, but even that number made the hall seem filled. Mr. Kiku looked down at them with interest, it being the first time that he had laid eyes on a Hroshiu. It was true, he saw, that these people did not present the golliwog friendliness shown in the pictures of the Hroshia Lummox. These were adults, even though smaller than Lummox. The one just in front of the platform and flanked by two others was staring back at him. The stare was cold and confident. Mr. Kiku found that the creature’s gaze made him uneasy; he wanted to shift his eyes. Instead he stared back and reminded himself that his own hypnotherapist could do it as well or better than the Hroshiu.

Greenberg touched his elbow. “They’ve set up weapons in here, too,” he whispered. “See that? In the back?”

Mr. Kiku answered, “We are not supposed to know that it is a weapon. Assume that it is apparatus for their own record of the conference.” Dr. Ftaeml was standing beside the foremost Hroshiu; the Under Secretary said to him, “Tell them what our Secretary General is. Describe him as chief of seventeen powerful planets.”

The Rargyllian hesitated. “What about the President of your Council?”

“The Secretary General embodies both of them for this occasion.”

“Very well, my friend.” The Rargyllian spoke in high-pitched speech which reminded Kiku of puppies whining. The Hroshiu answered him briefly in the same tongue, and suddenly Mr. Kiku no longer felt the dread that had been inspired by the creature’s stare. It was not possible to feel awe for a person who sounded like a lonesome puppy. But he reminded himself that deadly orders could be given in any speech.

Ftaeml was speaking. “Here beside me is…” He broke into a multiple squeal of the strange tongue. “…who is commander of the ship and the expedition. She…no, perhaps ‘he’ would be better…he is hereditary marshal and…” The Rargyllian broke off and fretted. “You have no equivalent rank. Perhaps I should say ‘mayor of the palace.’”

Greenberg suddenly said, “How about ‘boss,’ Doc?”

“A happy suggestion! Yes, this is the Boss. Her…his social position is not highest but his practical authority is almost without limit.”

Kiku asked, “Is his authority such that he may conduct plenipotentiary bargaining?”

“Ah, yes, certainly!”

“Then we will get on with it.” He turned to the actor and nodded. Then he spoke to the desk in front of him, using a hush circuit: “Getting all this?”

A voice answered his ears alone. “Yes, sir. The picture pick-up faded once but it’s all right now.”

“Are the Secretary General and the Chief of Staff listening?”

“I believe so, sir. Their offices are monitoring.”

“Very well” Mr. Kiku listened to the Secretary General’s speech. It was short but delivered with great dignity and the actor paced it so that Ftaeml might translate. The Secretary General welcomed the Hroshii to Earth, assured them that the peoples of the Federation were happy that the Hroshii had at long last found their lost sibling, and added that this happy accident should be the occasion for the Hroshii to take their rightful place in the Community of Civilizations.

He sat down and promptly went to sleep for all practical purposes, eyes open and face fixed in kindly dignity. The double could hold this Roman-Emperor pose for hours without really noticing the review, or ceremony, or whatever he might be chaperoning.

Mr. MacClure spoke briefly, seconding the Secretary General and adding that the Federation was now prepared to discuss any matters of business between the Federation and the noble Hroshii.

Greenberg leaned to Kiku and whispered, “Should we clap, boss? Somebody ought to and I don’t think they know how.”

“Shut up,” Kiku said amiably. “Dr. Ftaeml, does the commander have a speech of formality to deliver?”

“I think not.” Ftaeml spoke to the leading Hroshiu, then answered, “The reply is a serious comment on the two speeches made, rather than an answer of formality. He states that the Hroshii have no need of other…lesser…breeds and says we should now get to business without further, ah…trivia.”

“If it is true that they have no need for other peoples, please ask him why they have come to us and why they have offered us presents?”

“But you insisted on it, my friend,” Ftaeml answered in surprise.

“Thank you, Doctor, but I do not want your comment. Require him to answer. Please do not coach him.”

“I will try.” Ftaeml exchanged several sentences of the high whining with the Hroshij commander, then turned back to Kiku. “Forgive me. He says that he acceded to your childishness as the simplest means of accomplishing his purpose. He wishes to discuss now the surrender of John Thomas Stuart.”

“Please tell him that the matter is not open to discussion. The agenda requires that we first settle the question of diplomatic relations.”

“Pardon me, sir. ‘Diplomatic relations’ is a concept difficult to translate. I have been working on it for days.”

“Tell him that what he sees now is an example of diplomatic relations. Free peoples, negotiating as equals, with peaceful intentions, to their mutual benefit.”

The Rargyllian simulated a sigh. “Each of those concepts is almost equally difficult. I will try.”

Presently he answered, “The hereditary marshal says that if what we are doing constitutes diplomatic relations you have them now. Where is the Stuart boy?”

“Not so fast. The agenda must be taken up point by point. They must accept an embassy and a mixed mission for cultural, scientific, and trade purposes. They must leave with us a similar embassy and mission. Regular travel between our two sovereignties must be planned. Not until these are disposed of can there be any mention of the Stuart boy.”

“I will try again.” Ftaeml spoke to the ‘Boss’ Hroshiu at length; the reply was short. “He tells me to tell you that all those points are rejected as not worthy of consideration. Where is the Stuart boy?”

“In that case,” Mr. Kiku answered quietly, “tell them that we do not bargain with barbarians. Tell them to pick up the trash—be sure of forceful translation!—with which they have littered our home, and get quickly back to their ship. They are required to take off at once. They must bundle their precious Hroshia aboard, by force if need be, if they ever expect to see her again—they will never again be allowed to land.”

Ftaeml looked as if he were about to burst into tears he was incapable of shedding. “Please! I beg you not to antagonize them. I tell tales out of school… I go beyond my professional duties…but they could now destroy this city without recourse to their ship.”