the rhythm.
He had almost reached the narrow road along the edge of the sands when some premonition, some half- glimpsed movement, made him stop. Puzzled, he glanced from land to sea and back again: it was some little time before he thought of looking at the sky. Then Reinhold Hoffmann knew, as did Konrad Schneider at this same moment, that he had lost his race. And he knew that he had lost it, not by the few weeks or months that he had feared, but by millennia. The huge and silent shadows driving across the stars, more miles above his head than he dared to guess, were as far beyond his little Columbus as it surpassed the log canoes of paleolithic man.
For a moment that seemed to last forever, Reinhold watched, as all the world was watching, while the great ships descended in their overwhelming majesty—until at last he could hear the faint scream of their passage through the thin air of the stratosphere.
He felt no regrets as the work of a lifetime was swept away. He had laboured to take men to the stars, and in the moment of success the stars—the aloof, indifferent stars—had come to him. This was the moment when history held its breath, and the present sheared asunder from the past as an iceberg splits from its frozen, parent cliffs, and goes sailing out to sea in lonely pride. All that the past ages had achieved was as nothing now: only one thought echoed and re-echoed through Reinhold's brain: The human race was no longer alone.
I. EARTH AND THE OVERLORDS
2
The Secretary-General of the United Nations stood motionless by the great window, staring down at the crawling traffic on 43rd Street. He sometimes wondered if it was a good thing for any man to work at such an altitude above his fellow humans. Detachment was all very well, but it could change so easily to indifference. Or was he merely trying to rationalize his dislike of skyscrapers, still unabated after twenty years in New York?
He heard the door open behind him, but did not turn his head as Pieter van Ryberg came into the room. There was the inevitable pause as Pieter looked disapprovingly at the thermostat, for it was a standing joke that the Secretary-General liked living in an icebox. Stormgren waited until his assistant joined hint at the window, then tore his gaze away from the familiar yet always fascinating panorama below.
“They're late,” he said. “Wainwright should have been here five minutes ago.”
“I've just heard from the police. He's got quite a procession with him, and it's snarled up the traffic. He should be here any moment now.” Van Ryberg paused, then added abruptly, “Are you still sure it's a good idea to see him?”
“I'm afraid it's a little late to back out of it now. After all, I've agreed—though as you know it was never my idea in the first place.”
Stormgren had walked to his desk and was fidgeting with his famous uranium paperweight. He was not nervous—merely undecided. He was also glad that Wainwright was late, for that would give him a slight moral advantage when the interview opened. Such trivialities played a greater part in human affairs than anyone who set much store on logic and reason might wish.
“Here they are!” said van Ryberg suddenly, pressing his face against the window. “They're coming along the Avenue—a good three thousand, I'd say.”
Stormgren picked up his notebook and rejoined his assistant. Half a mile away, a small but determined crowd was moving slowly towards the Secretariat Building. It carried banners that were indecipherable at this distance, but Stormgren knew their message well enough. Presently he could hear, rising above the sound of the traffic, the ominous rhythm of chanting voices. He felt a sudden wave of disgust sweep over him. Surely the world had had enough of marching mobs and angry slogans!
The crowd had now come abreast of the building; it must know that he was watching, for here and there fists were being shaken, rather self-consciously, in the air. They were not defying him, though the gesture was doubtless meant for Stormgren to see. As pygmies may threaten a giant, so those angry fists were directed against the sky fifty kilometres above his head—against the gleaming silver cloud that was the flagship of the Overlord fleet.
And very probably, thought Stormgren, Karellen was watching the whole thing and enjoying himself hugely, for this meeting would never have taken place except at the Supervisor's instigation.
This was the first time that Stormgren had ever met the head of the Freedom League. He had ceased to wonder if the action was wise, for Karellen's plans were often too subtle for merely human understanding. At the worst, Stormgren did not see that any positive harm could be done. If he had refused to see Wainwright, the League would have used the fact as ammunition against him. Alexander Wainwright was a tall, handsome man in the late forties. He was, Stormgren knew, completely honest, and therefore doubly dangerous. Yet his obvious sincerity made it hard to dislike him, whatever views one might have about the cause for which he stood—and some of the followers he had attracted.
Stormgren wasted no time after van Ryberg's brief and somewhat strained introductions.
“I suppose,” he began, “the chief object of your visit is to register a formal protest against the Federation Scheme. Am I correct?” Wainwright nodded gravely.
“That is my main protest, Mr. Secretary. As you know, for the last five years we have tried to awaken the human race to the danger that confronts it. The task has been a difficult one, for the majority of people seem content to let the Overlords run the world as they please. Nevertheless, more than five million patriots, in every country, have signed our petition.”
“That is not a very impressive figure out of two and a half billion.”
“It is a figure that cannot be ignored. And for every person who has signed, there are many who feel grave doubts about the wisdom, not to mention the rightness of this Federation plan. Even Supervisor Karellen, for all his powers, cannot wipe out a thousand years of history at the stroke of a pen.”
“What does anyone know of Karellen's powers?” retorted Stormgren. “When I was a boy, the Federation of Europe was a dream—but when I grew to manhood it had become reality. And that was before the arrival of the Overlords. Karellen is merely finishing the work we had begun.”
“Europe was a cultural and geographical entity. The world is not—that is the difference.”
“To the Overlords,” replied Stormgren sarcastically, “the Earth is probably a great deal smaller than Europe seemed to our fathers—and their outlook, I submit, is more mature than ours.”
“I do not necessarily quarrel with Federation as an ultimate objective—though many of my supporters might not agree. But it must come from within—not be superimposed from without. We must work out our own destiny. There must be no more interference in human affairs!”
Stormgren sighed. All this he had heard a hundred times before, and he knew that he could only give the old answer that the Freedom League had refused to accept. He had faith in Karellen, and they had not. That was the fundamental difference, and there was nothing he could do about it. Luckily, there was nothing that the Freedom League could do, either.
“Let me ask you a few questions,” he said. “Can you deny that the Overlords have brought security, peace and prosperity to the world?”
“That is true. But they have taken our liberty. Man does not live—”
“—by bread alone. Yes, I know—but this is the first age in which every man was sure of getting even that.
