Birthright

construed as any form of weakness or surrender, but merely a willingness to discuss the situation across a

conference table instead of a battlefield. The aliens must realize that paltry as Man's armaments were, the race was in no way willing to leave itself totally defenseless. The aliens must understand that the use of a Galactic T-pack was only a temporary affectation, not a permanent reversal of long-standing human policy. The aliens must understand this, the aliens must do that, the aliens must yield on such-and-such a point...

Thome smoothed over as many points of disagreement as he could, then returned to the aliens with those demands which were not negotiable. The aliens gave in on a number of points, and he finally persuaded Man to yield on the remainder.

It had taken almost three years to set up the conference, years during which Man had lost seven more worlds, years during which Thome despaired almost daily of bringing the project to fruition, but at last the appointed moment had arrived. He looked around, smiling at the humanoid delegation from Emra, nodding to a passing Torqual, bowing low to a crystalline being from far Atria. “It's going to work!” he whispered excitedly to his companion. “I can feel it in my bones. Look at them, Lipas. They're not out for blood. They want an end to the killing as much as we do.” Lipas surveyed the room. “It's possible,” he admitted. “I shook hands with one of those Leptimus V creatures, and it didn't even flinch. A couple of years ago it would have raced off to its equivalent of a bathroom to wash away the taint of a Man's touch.” A three-legged Pnathian lumbered over to Thome, an unbelievably complex T-pack arrangement attached to its helmet.

“I have been here for almost half a day,” it said. “When will the conference begin?” “There are almost eighty races that have not yet arrived,” said Thome. “Once all are in attendance we shall proceed with our business, Ambassador.” “And your delegation?” asked the Pnathian. “Is it here yet?” “No,” said Thome. “It is one of the delegations we are waiting for.” The Pnathian stared at him for a moment, then walked off to join one of the Lodinites. In another two hours all but fourteen races had arrived, and Lerollion of Canphor VII, the leader of the Canphor Twins, approached Thome.

“Where is your delegation?” he said, and even the T-pack seemed to resonate with anger. “They'll be here,” said Thome. “They are coming from almost half a galaxy away. I don't think being a few hours late constitutes a breach of trust.” “Nonetheless, we cannot delay the conference any longer,” said Lerollion. “Have you any reason why we should not begin without your delegation?” “Absolutely,” said Thome. “My delegation is the whole reason we're meeting here today.” “Just the same,” said Lerollion, “it is time to begin.”