Sid Jakes and Ronny Bronston, one of his favorite field men, went on to the conference hall, where they had been sending the viewers of the exhibition.
“Where’s the Chief?” Ronny asked. He was what could only be described as a very average man. It was one of his prime attributes as a Section G operative. He was of average height and weight. His face was pleasant enough, though hardly handsome—a somewhat colorless young man of about thirty. He was less than natty in dress and his hair had a slightly undisciplined trend. He had dark hair and brown eyes, and he absolutely never stood out in a crowd.
He was also as devoted an agent as was to be found in Section G, whose personnel was selected on the basis of devotion to the United Planets dream.
Sid Jakes, walking along beside him—bouncing along, might be the better term—couldn’t have been more different. Even his clothes breathed a happy-go-lucky air. He had a nervous vitality about him that made all others seem lazy of movement. But his appearance was as belying as that of Ronny Bronston; one does not achieve to the rank of supervisor in Section G without abilities far and beyond usual.
Sid said, grunting amusement, “The old man’s in hiding until the time comes for the big revelation. He’s not about to get into that hive of big shots and let them yell at him at random. I’ll have Irene give him the word when all’s ready.”
The selected men of importance of United Planets had been gathered in an Octagon ultra-security conference room, which had been adjusted to hold the full two thousand of them. Comfortable seating arrangements and refreshment, both food and drink, had been provided. However, there was absolutely no method by which any, no matter of what importance, could communicate with the outside.
The doors were guarded by empty-faced Section G agents, under most strict orders. Polite they were, when this president or that dictator, this scientific genius, or that head of a fanatic religious system, demanded exit or some manner of communicating with family or staff. Polite they were, but unbending. When a burly bully-boy, from the feudalistic planet Goshen, tried to be physical, a short scuffle was sufficient to demonstrate that Section G training included hand-to-hand combat.
Irene Kasansky was seated, efficient as ever, at a desk near the podium. She was answering questions, briskly issuing commands into her order box, when requests involved preferred refreshment or other minor matters, which didn’t interfere with the security of the meeting.
Now she snarled from the side of her mouth. “It’s about time you got here. I’ve been through more jetsam, these past few hours, than I’ve had in the past few years managing Ross Metaxa’s office. And I thought that was the ultimate. Where have you been, playing dice?”
Sid grinned down at her. “Don’t be bitter, dear. You’ll get wrinkles and an acid-looking face, and then everyone will stop propositioning you. All’s ready to go. Pry the old man away from that bottle of Denebian tequila and let’s let loose the dogs of war.”
He turned and bounded to the speaker’s stand. Holding up his hands, he called: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, ladies. Can we all be seated? The meeting is about to commence.”
He held silence then, until all was quiet, which took some time, considering the fact that the most highly individualistic persons in United Planets were gathered before him.
Sid Jakes grinned finally, as though finding the whole thing amusing, and said, “Undoubtedly, you have been spending the better part of the morning discussing among yourselves the significance of the little creature I displayed to you. But now we shall hear from Commissioner Ross Metaxa.”
“Who in the name of the Holy Ultimate is Ross Metaxa?” someone rumbled.
And someone else snapped, indignantly, “You have taken
“Please, gentlemen, please,” Sid shouted above again rising voices. “Commissioner Ross Metaxa!” He jumped down from the dais and grinned at Ronny.
“The old man can have this job,” he chortled. “Every crackpot genius in this section of the galaxy is out there.”
Ross Metaxa came in through an inconspicuous door in the rear of the room, immediately behind the speaker’s stand. Eyebrows went up. He was flanked by the Director of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs— as high an officer as United Planets provided; and by the President of United Planets—a largely honorary office chosen by interplanetary vote. Once every ten years, each member planet was entitled to one voice, in selecting the president. Metaxa did not seem to be awed by his companions, but rather was obviously accompanied by peers.
Sid chuckled from the side of his mouth. “The old man’s hanging it on heavy.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Ronny whispered back. “He’s going to have hard enough a time as it is, getting this assembly to listen to his opinions.”
The Director and the President took chairs off to one side, and Metaxa made his way to the podium. He was a man in his middle years, sour of expression, weighty around the waist, and sloppily clothed to the point where it would seem an affectation.
The voices of the two thousand had begun to rise again, questioning, querulous.
Ross Metaxa glowered out at them for a long moment. Finally he growled, “All right, damn it, let’s cut out all this jetsam and get down to matters.”
There was an immediate hush of shocked surprise.
Before an indignant hum could rise again, the Commissioner of Section G announced brusquely: “Ladies and gentlemen, to use an idiomatic term of yesteryear, the human race is in the clutch.”
II
Someone in the first row of the audience snorted ridicule and called up, “Because of that little creature in there? Don’t be a flat!”
The Commissioner of Section G looked at him bleakly. “It should occur, even to the physically conscious Grand Duke of the Planet Romanoff, that the size of the creature in question has nothing to do with it.” He tapped his head significantly. “It is what is in here that brought us up short. You see, the little fellow was picked up by one of our Space Forces scouts well over a century ago.”
“A century!” one of his listeners bleated. “And we are only informed today?”
A buzz began again, but Metaxa held up a wary hand. “Please. That is one of the things I am here to explain. Our little alien was found in what could have only been a one-man fighter scout. He was dead, his craft blasted and torn, obviously from some weapon’s fire. His own vessel was highly equipped with what could only have been weapons: most so damaged, our engineers have yet to figure them out. To the extent they have been able to reconstruct them, they’ve been flabbergasted.
“The conclusions are obvious. Our intelligent alien, in there, was killed in an interplanetary conflict. How long he had been drifting in space, our technicians couldn’t determine, possibly only for months, but possibly for any number of centuries. But the important thing is that there was at least one other warlike, aggressive life form in the galaxy, besides man. Probably, at least two, since it was interplanetary war, which killed our specimen.”
The buzz rose again, and was not to be silenced for a time. Ross Metaxa stood and waited it out. But they were anxious for his revelations and finally silence ruled.
He dropped another bomb.
“But we no longer need fear our friend in the other room. Man is in no danger from him and his species.”
That set them off once more, but he held firm in silence until they quit their shouting of questions, their inter-audience squabblings, chattering and debate.
At last he held up a hand, and said, “Let me leave that statement for a time. Let me lay a foundation upon
