The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 32
"... I suggest, sir," it said, "that some of our technical experts confer with you over this instrument. That way, while we are reaching a decision, you can be making your requirements known to us, and thus save time."
"I have one of our nuclear scientists with me now. If you wish to speak with him ...?"
Maybe these creatures weren't so slow after all, the Commander thought. He said: "I will speak with your technician. But remember, I am impatient. You must reach a decision in one half of a rotation period, not three or four, otherwise I will destroy eight of your cities for every additional hour it takes you beyond that time."
And that, the Commander thought grimly, should make them move.
"We will do our best, sir," came the reply. "But you must realise that, though we live outside them, all our production and research centres are situated in the larger cities. Destroying them might interfere with the efficiency of our later work for you."
The Commander felt frustrated, and suddenly angry. But the creature was right. He dismissed it harshly and began talking to the Human techanician about his requirements.
The technician was a respectful and very attentive listener, and its knowledge of nuclear physics came as a pleasant shock to him. The Commander was profoundly grateful that the Humans were not a warlike race. The Translator, however, was apparently incapable of getting some of the more abstruse scientific concepts across properly—or the Human was slow to grasp some of the ideas. He had to go into a detailed explanation of the workings of the Lednang atomic drive—and the fundamental principles involved—before he could make the Human understand exactly what he wanted. But finally he made himself clear to the creature, and it began giving orders to some underlings that were with it. The particular isotopes that he needed could be made. But it would require considerable reorganisation of production methods, and ... a lot of time.
The Commander told him sharply that if the whole population worked on it, very little time would be needed, and the Human had better see to it that exactly that was done. Then he told the creature to summon food-chemistry and architectural technicians as he wanted the work of provisioning and sheltering his crews to be started as quickly as possible.
While waiting for the new technicians to arrive, the Commander began using his inter-ship communicator, demanding reports on the state of his crews from the ship captains. As he listened he thought that it was a very good thing that the Human in the room with him was not hearing those reports through the Translator. They were very, very bad.
He cut a ship-captain, who was reporting the death of a dormitory full of Lednang due to failure of the refrigeration system, off in mid-sentence. The Human, Murchison, was speaking again. He was growing suspicious of these Humans. They were properly servile before his display of power, but they didn't appear as fearful as he had expected them to be. They didn't, in fact, appear frightened at all.
Until he understood them fully it was more important that he listen and learn as much as he could.
"... And did you learn anything useful back there? "
"We certainly did," the nuclear technician that the Commander had spoken to replied. "The eighty per cent, efficient, controlled conversion of matter into energy! Think of the space drive that would give us. And it's such a simple affair, too. But it comes a bit late to do us any good."
"I guess so," the Human, Murchison, said. Then: "Er, tell me. Were you stalling back there? You didn't seem very bright."
"What do you think."
The Commander felt suddenly confused. Bright? Luminescent over a non-visual communicator? And what exactly was 'stalling'. There was ambiguity in the words that was confusing both the Translator and himself. He wouldn't have that.
"Silence!" he roared. Then: "You are using words the meaning of which is not clear. You will cease doing this immediately, or I will inflict physical punishment on the Human Murchison, here." He said to that suddenly white-faced Human: "Find out if your conference of 'representatives' has reached a decision yet."
The Human began talking rapidly into the communicator, but the Commander noticed that the words it used were simple, and their meanings clear.
Eventually a voice that he had heard before said: "We are sorry, sir, but no decision has been reached as yet."
No decision yet! What did these creatures think they were doing? Didn't they know he could blast their whole planet out of existence in a matter of minutes if he wanted to. But he knew he wouldn't do that—not while his Fleet was in its present predicament.
But they would have to hurry.
He said quietly: "Tell your 'representatives' that they have two hours in which to reach a decision, otherwise I will begin bombing your communities, at random."
"No, please," the Human said. "We will be as quick as possible."
There was short pause, then it went on: "You must understand, sir, that there are those among us who are not realistic. Rather than have our race exist merely as a handful of animals in an alien zoo, they say we should fight. They would prefer, as they put it, death before dishonor—"
"Enough! "
The Commander felt shocked, outraged. What, he thought with a burning sense of shame, did these ... these animals know about honour? Controlling the volume of his voice with difficulty, he said:
"Do not use that word to me again. Honour is for the higher species alone. However, I do not believe that your race can be so utterly decadent, so completely lacking in the will to survive, that they will choose wholesale suicide. You must realise that while there is life—several hundred lives in fact—there is always hope, and, conditional upon a rapid agreement to assist me, of course, I will make a further generous concession."
I will be pleading with them next, the Commander thought bitterly. He now freely admitted to himself that the Humans had him worried, because simply, they weren't worried; at least, not enough. Could they, he asked himself, have some secret, irresistible weapon? But no, they would have used it at his first hostile action.
The Commander pushed the growing anxiety into the back of his mind and went on:
"I solemnly promise that, as well as the number which I said would be allowed to live, these Humans will also be allowed to breed, and a similar number of their off-spring will be allowed to live to perpetuity."
This far I am prepared to go, the Commander thought savagely, and no farther.
The voice from the communicator said: "Er, yes. I will inform them of your ... er ... concession at once."
During the silence which followed, the Commander ignored the Human in the room with him, and instead listened to the reports coming in from the ships of his Fleet. Crew members going insane; crew members killing themselves; crew members forced into the utter shame of having to shed limbs that had become dead and brittle through malnutrition—the shame of being completely immobile, dependent. The Commander felt sick. And another dormitory of deep-sleeping Lednang had perished; the unshielded rays of the Sun and the baking heat of this moon's pumice-covered surface, taken together, was overloading the under-powered refrigeration units.
Fuel was terribly scarce, but he'd have to use some anyway. He would take his Fleet up to a circum-Lunar orbit, away from that burning grey dust. It was the only answer. He was about to give the order when the communicator came to life again.
"Mr. Murchison," it said briskly. "You may have heard of me; you may not. My job, normally, is superfluous. I tell you this so that you'll understand who I am and the necessity of giving accurate, factual information ..."
What, thought the Commander aghast, was this?
"... What exactly," the voice continued, "do you know about their weapons, especially the time-lag between their decision to use them—in the unlikely event of our conference voting against surrender, of course—and their arrival here?" The voice became less brisk and its timbre changed markedly. "You know how we feel about this, Mr. Murchison. the aversion we have towards all forms of violence, and towards killing. Can you believe me that even I feel the same way—strongly. But, in order to decide, the conference must know. Is there a chance of less harsh conditions—"
"No!" the Commander interrupted harshly. "There is not! The conditions will not be deviated from. No further concessions will be made." He stopped, thinking about that voice. The tone, the method of expression, the air of authority, all sounded somehow familiar. It sounded—almost—like a Lednang. It sounded, he realised with a sudden shock of surprise, Military! With anger and anxiety battling for control of his voice he went on: "I see now that your race does have a military organisation after all, even though I've been unable to detect a single, armed surface vessel. I believe, however, that this organisation is impoverished by lack of arms and support, and completely atrophied by neglect; its echelons of command have become, I suspect, hereditary." He paused again, then deliberately raising the volume of his voice and speaking slowly and distinctly, he said: "You have taken a grave risk by using this impotent organisation as a threat to obtain further concessions.
"I will give you the information that you seek from Murchison.
"Should your 'representatives' be so suicidally stupid as to decide to fight, they will have approximately three of your hours to live after this decision is made known to me—two and a half hours for my drive units to become energised, and half an hour to arrive there at full acceleration. Tell your conference of this. Also tell them that I have decided to lift my ships into an orbit around your satellite and, if they have by that time decided to co-operate, this movement of my forces will not be meant as a threat towards them, if they have not decided, then ... Listen!" He flipped on the General Call switch without turning off the Translator so that the Humans on Earth could hear him.
"To cruisers 1834 and 1298; prepare and load germ weapon projectors! To all units; commence preparations for take-off immediately!"
For a short time there was silence. Then:
"General," said Murchison in a suddenly frightened voice. "Two and a half hours, then they'll scat—"
"Quiet!" barked the General.
"General," came the voice of another Human on Earth. "Let me speak to it for a moment. We've got to do the right thing here. Maybe in two hours we could suggest something else, something less bloody."
"If I am out-voted," the military Human said slowly, "Well and good."
Definitely a very decadent race, the Commander told himself; those had not been the words of a true fighting creature. But he still felt uneasy ...
The Human was talking again.
"Sir. You must realise that we are an advanced race. While we have grown to abhor any form of violence, we still like a certain amount of freedom. This means that we would produce much more efficiently for you if we did so willingly, in co-operation, instead of being forced. An individual cannot be driven to using his brain ..."
The first solar system had been a bitter disappointment. The second and third failures should have demolished his mind. But they hadn't. Somehow he'd hung on. He'd hung on while his mighty Fleet—with its starving and rotting crew—flew the interstellar night, outwardly an irresistible, shining spearhead of Empire. He had persisted stubbornly while all reason demanded that he cease. Cease making concessions to the health of his crew; cease the growing relaxation of discipline that the over-working of skeleton crews made necessary; cease, in fact, to live—while he still had a few shreds of pride, authority, and honour left to him. Honour was very important to a Lednang. But he had continued to make concessions and compromise, until ...
This, he thought with a cold, furious anger that he had never known before, was too much.
The Human was saying; "... We have therefore a counter-proposal to make. Instead of settling on Earth, we offer you—unconditionally—our planets Mars and Venus. With your giant ships you could ferry our men and material to these planets. The shelters you require could be built very quickly—we are expert at the high-speed construction of prefabricated parts—and we could generate the air necessary if the native atmosphere was unsuited to you. This would be an ideal arrangement for both of us, because we could produce the material you need much more quickly and efficiently if we were not subjected to the physical and psychological shock of constant contact with a completely alien life-form. There would almost certainly be friction between us otherwise.
"If you agree to this," the Human urged, "and settle on our sister worlds, eventually the ill-feeling brought about by the casualties inflicted on us during your attack would fade. We would then he able to exchange scientific cultural knowledge; both our races would be bound to benefit enormously. Instead of master and unwilling slave, we could go forward together as friends, brothers."
There was a point, the Commander found, where blazing, all-consuming anger stopped and was replaced by an icy, merciless calm. He passed that point with the Human's last few words. Never could a Lednang have been so terribly, so unbelievably insulted.
The Lednang, brothers, with these snivelling, crawling slugs ...
"We want only peace," the Human ended, "At almost any price. Violence, killing, is against our—"
"I will not speak with you further," the Commander thundered in a terrible voice. "You have three hours to live."
He had come so far, so very far. Four star systems he had tried, and nothing but disaster and black despair had met him at each one. But even now he felt strangely loath to take the honorable—and easy—way out.
He felt a little like that ancient, legendary Tree of Lednang, when it was still immobile, still Rooted. At that time it had been beset by the atmosphere elements of wind and electrical discharge, starved of moisture, and riddled with vermin until it had been almost completely rotten. But it had survived.
It had survived, so the legends told, because it had sloughed off the rotten Branches and fought on with the small though perfect residue.
The moral was plain; it could be applied here. He had been too yielding, too merciful, for far too long. All members of his crews who were in a reasonably fit condition he would collect into one or two ships, and they would go down and Seed that planet without help. It would take a long time to accomplish—and there would be many casualties—but it could be done. He knew he couldn't fail, simply because all that could happen to him had already happened; there couldn't be any more misfortune left. The rest of the Expedition—the starving, deep-sleeping and diseased Branches of his Plant—he would order away, on a course set automatically to intersect the Sun.
But first he must clear Earth of its Humans,
Ignoring the creature Murchison, who was sitting propped against a bulkhead watching him, he said into his communicator:
"Cruisers 1834 and 1298; report!"
"Germ weapons armed and loaded as ordered, sir," the reply came promptly. "We are ready to take off—"
At that moment the Earth missiles arrived. They rained down on the grounded Lednang fleet thickly and continuously for almost three seconds. A few had fission warheads, but most used the frightfully destructive energy of the hydrogen-helium fusion reaction. The lunar plain bubbled and boiled in the heat of the hundreds of tiny suns that blazed suddenly into life on its surface, and for hundreds of miles around the resultant ground shock-wave hammered ringwalls and mountain peaks into flat mounds of dust. Nothing was left of the Lednang fleet but a few shattered hulks embedded in the fast-cooling slag that had once been a pumice-covered plain.
By some freak of chance his control room was undamaged, but on the Human's side of the transparent wall the air was leaking badly. The creature's voice, coming through the speaker diaphram of the helmet it had donned, grew weaker as the atmosphere which carried it grew less.
"We are not a peaceful race, Commander. We were, until recently, the very opposite." Self disgust tinged its voice. "We fought bitterly, incessantly, amongst ourselves for centuries—and over the most paltry and stupid things. With each new war our weapons improved. The wars became more widespread, more cold-blooded, more murderously-destructive. They became so frightful that we began to grow heartily sick of war.
"But old habits die hard.
"We stopped fighting, but we couldn't trust each other at first—we kept on arming. One side had atomic bombs, then everyone had atomic bombs. One side succeeded in putting a spacestation up, to act as an observation and missile launching platform. Soon the other side had missiles capable of attaining orbital velocity, too. Non-nuclear weapons and weapon-carriers were by then obsolete. The first side took its idea a step further and set up a base on the Moon. The other side answered this by developing missiles capable of reaching the Moon. And so it went on.
"None of these weapons were ever used, of course. They were stored away in safe places, but in such a way that they could be used at very short notice."
The Human paused, bracing himself more comfortably against the crazy angle of the floor. The Commander listened dully as he continued.
"Big cities were obvious targets for atomic attack, so decentralization was forced upon us. The cities became practically deserted. We kept spending fantastic sums just to feel secure, but naturally we never felt safe at all. Then one day we all realised how stupid it all was, and how unnecessary—"
"But where were they hidden?" the Commander burst out, a burning curiosity momentarily lifting him out of his apathy. "I couldn't see any weapons."
"I know," replied the Human. "That surprised us. If not actually visible, we thought they would be detectable, especially when you put all those floating camera pick-ups above our power piles. But when we found out what you are like, and the gravity you must be accustomed to at home, we realised that you would never think of looking for them where they were hidden.
"On your home planet with its high gravity, I'd say that you don't go in for tall buildings; you must have a fear of falling—or of having something fall on you—amounting to a psychosis. You could never believe that anyone would build deeply ... underground."
