'Fourteen hours late,' the general said. 'Let us, for the moment, try to look our best. You missed a button, Captain.'
'Sorry, sir,' the captain said, fastening the button.
'Right, then. Get those shoulders back. Smartly, if you will. Right, left, hup, hup!'
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sergeant Conrad had his squad moving out with precision, escorting the captive Flyer most correctly forward, with all the dignity and smartness that anyone might wish.
The men were drawn up now in two parallel lines, flanking the ship. The port was swinging open and the ramp was rumbling out and the general noted with some satisfaction that he and Captain Gist would arrive at the foot of the ramp about the time it touched the ground. The timing was dramatic and superb, almost as if he himself had planned it down to the last detail.
The ramp snapped into position and three Flyers came sedately waddling down it.
A seedy-looking trio, the general thought. Not a proper uniform nor a medal among the lot of them.
The general seized the diplomatic initiative as soon as the ramp reached the ground.
'We welcome you,' he told them, speaking loudly an slowly and as distinctly as he could so they would understand.
They lined up and stood looking at him and he felt a bit uncomfortable because there was that round jolly expression on their faces. Evidently they didn't have the kind of faces that could assume any other expression. But they kept on looking at him.
The general plunged ahead. 'It is a matter of great gratification to Earth to carry out in good faith our obligations agreed upon in the armistice proceedings. It marks what we sincerely hope will be the beginning of an era…'
'Most nice,' one of the Flyers said. Whether he meant the general's little speech or the entire situation or was simply trying to be gracious was not at once apparent.
Undaunted, the general was ready to go on, but the spokesman Flyer raised a short round arm to halt him. 'Prisoners arrive briefly,' he whistled.
'You mean you didn't bring them?'
'They come again,' the Flyer said with a glorious disregard for preciseness of expression. He continued beaming at the general and he made a motion with the arm that might have been a shrug.
'Shenanigans,' the captain said, close to the general's ear.
'We talk,' the Flyer said.
'They're up to something,' warned the captain. 'It calls for Situation Red, sir.'
'I agree,' the general told the captain. 'Set it up quietly.'
He said to the Flyer delegation: 'If you gentlemen will come with me, I can offer you refreshments.'
He had a feeling that they were smiling at him, but one could never tell. Those jolly expressions were always the same. No matter what the situation.
'Most happy,' said the Flyer spokesman. 'These refresh…'
'Drink,' the general said and made a motion to supplement the word.
'Drink is good,' the Flyer answered. 'Drink is friend?'
'That is right,' the general said.
He started for the tent, walking slowly so the Flyers could keep up.
He noted with some satisfaction that the captain had carried on most rapidly, indeed. Corporal Conrad was marching his squad back across the area, with the captive Flyer shambling in the centre. The tarps were coming off the guns and the last of the crew was clambering up the ladder of the ship.
The captain caught up with them just short of the tent.
'Everything all set, sir,' Corporal Conrad reported in a whisper.
'Fine,' the general said.
They reached the tent and went inside. The general opened a refrigerating unit and took out a gallon jug.
'This,' he explained, 'is a drink we made for your compatriot. He found it very tasty.'
He set out glasses and sipping straws and uncorked the jug, wishing he could somehow hold his nose, for the drink smelled like something that had been dead too long. He didn't even like to guess what might have gone into it. The chemists back on Earth had whomped it up for the captive Flyer, who had consumed gallon after gallon of it with disconcerting gusto.
The general filled the glasses and the Flyers picked them up in their tentacles and stuck the straws into their draw-string mouths. They drank and rolled their eyes in appreciation.
The general took the glass of liquor the captain handed him and gulped half of it in haste. The tent was getting just a little thick. What things a man goes through, he thought, to serve his planets and his peoples.
He watched the Flyers drinking and wondered what they might have up their sleeves.
Talk, the spokesman had told him, and that might mean almost anything. It might mean a reopening of negotiations or it might be nothing but a stall.
And if it was negotiation, Earth was across the barrel. For there was nothing he could do but negotiate. Earth's fleet was crippled and the Flyers had the weapon and a renewal of the war was unthinkable. Earth needed five years at the minimum and ten years would be still better.
And if it was attack, if this planet was a trap, there was only one thing he could do?stand and fight as best he could, thoroughly suicidal course.
Either way, Earth lost, the general realized.
The Flyers put down their glasses and he filled them up again.
'You do well,' one of the Flyers said. 'You got the paper and the marker?'
'Marker?' the general asked.
'He means a pencil,' said the captain.
'Oh, yes. Right here.' The general reached for a pad of paper and a pencil and laid them on the desk.
One of the Flyers set down his glass and, picking up the pencil, started to make a laborious drawing. He looked for all the world like a five-year-old printing his first alphabet.
They waited while the Flyer drew. Finally he was finished. He laid the pencil down and pointed to the wiggly lines. 'Us,' he said. He pointed to the sawtooth lines. 'You,' he told the general.
The general bent above the paper, trying to make out what the Flyer had put down.
'Sir,' the captain said, 'it looks like a baffle diagram.'
'Is,' said the Flyer proudly.
He picked the pencil up. 'Look,' he said. He drew directional lines and made a funny kind of symbol for the points of contact and made crosses for the sections where the battle lines were broken. When he was done, the Earth fleet had been shattered and sliced into three segments and was in headlong flight.
'That,' the general said, with the husk of anger rising in his throat, 'was the engagement in Sector 17. Half of our Fifth Squadron was wiped out that day.'
'Small error,' said the Flyer and made a deprecatory gesture. He ripped the sheet of paper off the pad and tossed it on the floor. He laboriously drew the diagram again. 'Attend,' he said.
The Flyer drew the directional lines again, but this time he changed them slightly. Now the Earth line pivoted and broke and became two parallel lines that flanked the Flyer drive and turned and blunted it and scattered it in space. The Flyer laid the pencil down. 'Small matter,' he informed the general and the captain. 'You good. You make one thin mistake.'
Holding himself sternly in hand, the general filled the glasses once again. What are they getting at, he thought. Why don't they come flat out and say it?
'So best,' one of the Flyers said, lifting his glass to let them know that he meant the drink.
'More?' asked the Flyer tactician, picking up the pencil.
'Please,' said the general, seething.
He walked to the tent flap and looked outside. The men were at the guns. Thin wisps of vapour curled from the ship's launching tubes; in just a little while, it would be set to go, should the need arise. The camp was quiet and tense.
He went back to the desk and watched as the Flyer went on with tactics. 'Interesting?' he piped enthusiastically.
