Cercy turned away impatiently, but had an order of mistletoe sent up, just in case.
It was, at least, no less effective than the explosive shells or the bow and arrow. It did nothing except lend an oddly festive air to the battered room.
After a week of this, they moved the unprotesting Ambassador into a newer, bigger, stronger death cell. They were unable to venture into his old one because of the radioactivity and microorganisms.
The Ambassador went back to work at his typewriter. All his previous attempts had been burned, torn or eaten away.
“Let’s go talk to him,” Darrig suggested, after another day had passed. Cercy agreed. For the moment, they were out of ideas.
“Come right in, gentlemen,” the Ambassador said, so cheerfully that Cercy felt sick. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything. Through an oversight, I haven’t been given any food or water for about ten days. Not that it matters, of course.”
“Glad to hear it,” Cercy said. The Ambassador hardly looked as if he had been facing all the violence Earth had to offer. On the contrary, Cercy and his men looked as though they had been under bombardment.
“You’ve got quite a defense there,” Malley said conversationally.
“Glad you like it.”
“Would you mind telling us how it works?” Darrig asked innocently.
“Don’t you know?”
“We think so. You become what is attacking you. Is that right?”
“Certainly,” the Ambassador said. “You see, I have no secrets from you.”
“Is there anything we can give you,” Cercy asked, “to get you to turn off that signal?”
“A bribe?”
“Sure,” Cercy said. “Anything you—?”
“Nothing,” the Ambassador replied.
“Look, be reasonable,” Harrison said. “You don’t want to cause a war, do you? Earth is united now. We’re arming—”
“With what?”
“Atom bombs,” Malley answered him. “Hydrogen bombs. We’re—”
“Drop one on me,” the Ambassador said. “It wouldn’t kill me. What makes you think it will have any effect on my people?”
The four men were silent. Somehow, they hadn’t thought of that.
“A people’s ability to make war,” the Ambassador stated, “is a measure of the status of their civilization. Stage one is the use of simple physical extensions. Stage two is control at the molecular level. You are on the threshold of stage three, although still far from mastery of atomic and subatomic forces.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “My people are reaching the limits of stage five.”
“What would that be?” Darrig asked.
“You’ll find out,” the Ambassador said. “But perhaps you’ve wondered if my powers are typical? I don’t mind telling you that they’re not. In order for me to do my job and nothing more, I have certain built-in restrictions, making me capable only of passive action.”
“Why?” Darrig asked.
“For obvious reasons. If I were to take positive action in a moment of anger, I might destroy your entire planet.”
“Do you expect us to believe that?” Cercy asked.
“Why not? Is it so hard to understand? Can’t you believe that there are forces you know nothing about? And there is another reason for my passiveness. Certainly by this time you’ve deduced it?”
“To break our spirit, I suppose,” Cercy said.
“Exactly. My telling you won’t make any difference, either. The pattern is always the same. An Ambassador lands and delivers his message to a high-spirited, wild young race like yours. There is frenzied resistance against him, spasmodic attempts to kill him. After all these fail, the people are usually quite crestfallen. When the colonization team arrives, their indoctrination goes along just that much faster.” He paused, then said, “Most planets are more interested in the philosophy I have to offer. I assure you, it will make the transition far easier.”
He held out a sheaf of typewritten pages. “Won’t you at least look through it?”
Darrig accepted the papers and put them in his pocket. “When I get time.”
“I suggest you give it a try,” the Ambassador said. “You must be near the crisis point now. Why not give it up?”
“Not yet,” Cercy replied tonelessly.
“Don’t forget to read the philosophy,” the Ambassador urged them.
The men hurried from the room.
“Now look,” Malley said, once they were back in the control room, “there are a few things we haven’t tried. How about utilizing psychology?”
“Anything you like,” Cercy agreed, “including black magic. What did you have in mind?”
“The way I see it,” Malley answered, “the Ambassador is geared to respond, instantaneously, to any threat. He must have an all-or-nothing defensive reflex. I suggest first that we try something that won’t trigger that reflex.”
“Like what?” Cercy asked.
“Hypnotism. Perhaps we can find out something.”
“Sure,” Cercy said. “Try it. Try anything.”
Cercy, Malley and Darrig gathered around the video screen as an infinitesimal amount of a light hypnotic gas was admitted into the Ambassador’s room. At the same time, a bolt of electricity lashed into the chair where the Ambassador was sitting.
“That was to distract him,” Malley explained. The Ambassador vanished before the electricity struck him, and then appeared again, curled up in his armchair.
“That’s enough,” Malley whispered, and shut the valve. They watched. After a while, the Ambassador put down his book and stared into the distance.
“How strange,” he said. “Alfern dead. Good friend … just a freak accident. He ran into it, out there. Didn’t have a chance. But it doesn’t happen often.”
“He’s thinking out loud,” Malley whispered, although there was no possibility of the Ambassador’s hearing them. “Vocalizing his thoughts. His friend must have been on his mind for some time.”
“Of course,” the Ambassador went on, “Alfern had to die sometime. No immortality—yet. But that way—no defense. Out there in space they just pop up. Always there, underneath, just waiting for a chance to boil out.”
“His body isn’t reacting to the hypnotic as a menace yet,” Cercy whispered.
“Well,” the Ambassador told himself, “the regularizing principle has been doing pretty well, keeping it
