His voice came through Tommy's space-phone receivers. Tommy wetted his lips and said:
'It doesn't seem like adventure to me, sir. I want terribly for the plan to go through. I thought adventure was when you didn't care.'
'Oh, no,' said the skipper. 'Adventure is when you toss your life on the scales of chance and wait for the pointer to stop.'
They reached the round object. They clung to its short, scanner-tipped horns.
'Intelligent, those creatures,' said the skipper heavily. 'They must want desperately to see more of our ship than the communications room, to agree to this exchange of visits before the fight.'
'Yes, sir,' said Tommy. But privately, he suspected that Buck—his gill-breathing friend—would like to see him in the flesh before one or both of them died. And it seemed to him that between the two ships had grown up an odd tradition of courtesy, like that between two ancient knights before a tourney, when they admired each other wholeheartedly before hacking at each other with all the contents of their respective armories.
They waited.
Then, out of the mist, came two other figures. The alien spacesuits were also power-driven. The aliens themselves were shorter than men, and their helmet openings were coated with a filtering material to cut off visible and ultraviolet rays which to them would be lethal. It was not possible to see more than the outline of the heads within.
Tommy's helmet phone said, from the communications room on the Llanvabon:
'They say that their ship is waiting for you, sir. The air lock door will be open.'
The skipper's voice said heavily:
'Mr. Dort, have you seen their spacesuits before? If so, are you sure they're not carrying anything extra, such as bombs?'
'Yes, sir,' said Tommy. 'We've showed each other our space equipment. They've nothing but regular stuff in view, sir.'
The skipper made a gesture to the two aliens. He and Tommy Dort plunged on for the black vessel. They could not make out the ship very clearly with the naked eye, but directions for change of course came from the communication room.
The black ship loomed up. It was huge; as long as the Llanvabon and vastly thicker. The air lock did stand open. The two spacesuited men moved in and anchored themselves with magnetic-soled boots. The outer door closed. There was a rush of air and simultaneously the sharp quick tug of artificial gravity. Then the inner door opened.
All was darkness. Tommy switched on his helmet light at the same instant as the skipper. Since the aliens saw by infrared, a white light would have been intolerable to them. The men's helmet lights were, therefore, of the deep-red tint used to illuminate instrument panels so there would be no dazzling of eyes that must be able to detect the minutest specks of white light on a navigating vision plate. There were aliens waiting to receive them. They blinked at the brightness of the helmet lights. The space-phone receivers said in Tommy's ear:
'They say, sir, their skipper is waiting for you.'
Tommy and the skipper were in a long corridor with a soft flooring underfoot.
Their lights showed details of which every one was exotic.
'I think I'll crack my helmet, sir,' said Tommy.
He did. The air was good. By analysis it was thirty percent oxygen instead of twenty for normal air on Earth, but the pressure was less. It felt just right. The artificial gravity, too, was less than that maintained on the Llanvabon. The home planet of the aliens would be smaller than Earth, and—by the infrared data—circling close to a nearly dead, dull- red sun. The air had smells in it. They were utterly strange, but not unpleasant.
An arched opening. A ramp with the same soft stuff underfoot. Lights which actually shed a dim, dull-red glow about. The aliens had stepped up some of their illuminating equipment as an act of courtesy. The light 'tight hurt their eyes, but it was a gesture of consideration which made Tommy even more anxious for his plan to go through.
The alien skipper faced them, with what seemed to Tommy a gesture of wryly humorous deprecation. The helmet phones said:
'He says, sir, that he greets you with pleasure, but he has been able to think of only one way in which the problem created by the meeting of these two ships can be solved.'
'He means a fight,' said the skipper. 'Tell him I'm here to offer another choice.'
The Llanvabon's skipper and the skipper of the alien ship were face to face, but their communication was weirdly indirect. The aliens used no sound in communication. Their talk, in fact, took place on microwaves and approximated telepathy. But they could not hear, in any ordinary sense of the word, so the skipper's and Tommy's speech approached telepathy, too, as far as they were concerned. When the skipper spoke, his space phone sent his words back to the Llanvabon, where the words were fed into the coder and short-wave equivalents sent back to the black ship.
The alien skipper's reply went to the Llanvabon and through the decoder, and was retransmitted by space phone in words read from the message frame. It was awkward, but it worked.
The short and stocky alien skipper paused. The helmet phones relayed his translated, soundless reply.
'He is anxious to hear, sir.'
The skipper took off his helmet. He put his hands at his belt in a belligerent pose.
'Look here!' he said truculently to the bald, strange creature in the unearthly red glow before him. 'It looks like we have to fight and one batch of us get killed. We're ready to do it if we have to. But if you win, we've got it fixed so you'll never find out where Earth is, and there's a good chance we'll get you anyhow! If we win, we'll be in the same fix. And if we win and go back home, our government will fit out a fleet and start hunting your planet. And if we find it we'll be ready to blast it to hell! If you win, the same thing will happen to us! And it's all foolishness! We've stayed here a month, and we've swapped information, and we don't hate each other. There's no reason for us to fight except for the rest of our respective races!'
The skipper stopped for breath, scowling. Tommy Dort inconspicuously put his own hands on the belt of his spacesuit. He waited, hoping desperately that the trick would work.
'He says, sir,' reported the helmet phones, 'that all you say is true. But that his race has to be protected, just as you feel that yours must be.'
'Naturally!' said the skipper angrily, 'but the sensible thing to do is to figure out how to protect it! Putting its future up as a gamble in a fight is not sensible. Our races have to be warned of each other's existence. That's true. But each should have proof that the other doesn't want to fight, but wants to be friendly. And we shouldn't be able to find each other, but we should be able to communicate with each other to work out grounds for a common trust. If our governments want to be fools, let them! But we should give them the chance to make friends, instead of starting a space war out of mutual funk!'
Briefly, the space phone said:
'He says that the difficulty is that of trusting each other now. With the possible existence of his race at stake, he cannot take any chance, and neither can you, of yielding an advantage.'
'But my race,' boomed the skipper, glaring at the alien captain, 'my race has an advantage now. We came here to your ship in atom-powered spacesuits! Before we left, we altered the drives! We can set off ten pounds of sensitized fuel apiece, right here in this ship, or it can be set off by remote control from our ship! It will be rather remarkable if your fuel store doesn't blow up with us! In other words, if you don't accept my proposal for a common-sense approach to this predicament, Dort and I blow up in an atomic explosion, and your ship will be wrecked if not destroyed—and the Llanvabon will be attacking with everything it's got within seconds after the blast goes off!'
The captain's room of the alien ship was a strange scene, with its dull-red illumination and the strange, bald, gill-breathing aliens watching the skipper and waiting for the inaudible translation of the harangue they could not hear. But a sudden tensity appeared in the air. A sharp, savage feeling of strain. The alien skipper made a gesture. The helmet phones hummed.
'He says, sir, what is your proposal?'
'Swap ships!' roared the skipper. 'Swap ships and go on home! We can fix our instruments so they'll do no trailing, he can do the same with his. We'll each remove our star maps and records. We'll each dismantle our weapons. The air will serve, and we'll take their ship and they'll take ours, and neither one can harm or trail the
