Collision Course

THREE

Dr. Martin Bernard was at his ease, that evening, in his South Kensington flat just off the Cromwell Road. Outside his window drifted London’s murky Sixmonth fog; but Martin Bernard took no notice of that. His windows were opaqued; within the flat, all was cozy, warm, and snug, as he liked it. Ancient music tinkled softly down from the overhead sonic screen: Bach, it was, a harpischord piece. He had the volume control set for minimal audibility, just above the hearing threshold. That way, the Bach made no demands on his attention, but he sensed its presence, gay and lilting.

Bernard lay sprawled in his vibrochair, cradling a volume of Yeats on his lap while the shoulder-lamp wriggled unhappily in its attempt to keep the beam focussed on the page no matter how Bernard might alter his position. A flask of rare brandy, twenty years old, imported from one of the Procyon worlds, was within easy reach. Bernard had his drink, his music, his poetry, his warmth. What better way, he asked himself, to relax after spending two hours trying to pound the essentials of sociometrics into the heads of an obtuse clump of sophomores?

Even as he relaxed, he felt a twinge of guilt at his comfort. Academic people were not generally thought of as sybarites, but he told himself that he deserved this comfort. He was the top man in his field. He had, besides, written a successful novel. His poems were highly esteemed and anthologized. He had struggled hard for his present acclaim; now, at forty-three, with the problem of money solved forever and the problem of his second marriage equally neatly disposed of, there was no reason why he should not spend his evenings in this luxurious solitude.

He smiled. Katha had divorced him: mental cruelty, she had charged, though Bernard thought of himself as one of the least cruel persons who had ever lived. It was simply that his teaching and his writing and his own studies had left him with no time for his wife. She had divorced him; so be it. He realized now, two marriages too late, that he had not really been the marrying sort at all.

He leaned back, thumbing through Yeats. A wonderful poet, Bernard thought; perhaps the best of the Late Medievals. That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born and dies. Caught in that …

The phone chimed, shattering the flow. Bernard scowled and elbowed himself to a sitting position; putting down the book, he crossed to the phone cabinet and thumbed the go-ahead button. He had never had an extension rigged that would allow him to answer the phone without getting up. He was not yet sybarite enough to carry on his conversations while flat on his back.

The screen brightened; but instead of a face, the image of the Technarch’s coat-of-arms appeared. Frowning, Bernard stared at the yellow and blue emblem.

An impersonal voice said, “Dr. Martin Bernard?”

“That’s right.”

“Technarch McKenzie wished to speak to you. Are you alone?”

“Yes. I’m alone.”

“Please apply unscrambler.”

Bernard lowered the toggle at the side of the phone. A moment later, the coat-of-arms gave way to the head and shoulders of the Technarch himself. Bernard stared levelly at the strong, blocky-featured face of McKenzie. He and the Technarch had met only a few times; McKenzie had decorated him with the Order of Merit seven years back, and since then they had crossed paths at several formal scientific functions. But he had heard the Technarch’s familiar booming voice on hundreds of state occasions. Now, Bernard inclined his head respectfully and said, “Hearkening, Technarch.”

“Good evening, Dr. Bernard. Something unusual has arisen. I think you can help me—help us all.”

“If it’s possible for me to serve, Technarch…”

“It is. We’ve sent an experimental faster-than-light ship out, Dr. Bernard. It reached a system ten thousand light-years away. Intelligent colony-building aliens were discovered. We have to negotiate a treaty with them. I want you to head the negotiating team.”

The short, punchy sentences left Bernard dizzy. He followed the Technarch from one startling statement to the next; the final sentence landed with the impact of a blow.

“You want—me—to head the negotiating team?” Bernard repeated dazedly.

“You’ll be accompanied by three other negotiators and a crew of five. The crew is ready; I’m still waiting acceptance from some of the others. Departure will be immediate. The transit time is negligible. The period of negotiation can be as brief as you can make it. You could be back on Earth in less than a month.”

Bernard felt an instant of vertigo. All seemed swallowed up: the book of poetry, the brandy, the warmth, the snugness— all punctured in a moment by this transatlantic call.

He said in a hesitant voice, “Why—why am I picked for this assignment?”

“Because you’re the best of your profession,” replied the Technarch simply. “Can you free yourself of commitments for the next several weeks?”

“I—suppose so.”

“I have your acceptance, then, Dr. Bernard?”

“I—yes, Excellency. I accept.”

“Your service will not go unrewarded. Report to Archonate Center as soon as is convenient, Doctor—and no later than tomorrow evening New York time. You have my deepest gratitude, Dr. Bernard.”

The screen went blank.

Bernard gaped at the contracting dot of light that had been the Technarch’s face a moment before. He stared down suddenly at the floor, dizzy. My God, he thought. What have I let myself in for? An interstellar expedition!

Then he smiled ironically. The Technarch had just offered him a chance to be one of the first human beings to meet face-to-face with an intelligent non-terrestrial. And here he was, worrying about a temporary separation from his piddling little comfortable nest. I ought to be celebrating, he thought, not worrying. Brandy and vibrochairs can wait. This is the most important thing I’ll ever do in my life!

He disconnected the sonic screen; the harpsichord music died away in the middle of a twanging cadence. Yeats returned to the bookshelf. He took a final sip of brandy and replaced the flask in the sideboard.

Within half an hour he had compiled a list of those people who needed to be notified about his departure, and he programmed his robosecretary to make such notification—after he had left. No point in getting into long debates with people over who was going to cover his classes, who was going to read the galleys on his new book. Better to confront people with the fait accompli of his departure and let them make decisions without him.

Packing was a problem; he winnowed out several fat books, packed two slim ones, some clothing, some memodiscs. He found himself unable to sleep, even after taking a relaxotab, and he rose near dawn to pace his flat in tense anticipation. At 1100 hours he decided to transmat across to New York, but his guidebook told him it would still be early in the morning on the other side of the Atlantic. He waited an hour, dialed ahead for courtesy permission to cross, and set his transmat for the Archonate Center.

He stepped through, wondering as always at the manner of the transmat’s operation. His thought was cut in half as the field seized hold of him; when he emerged at the other end, he was still in mid-thought.

Dour-faced Archonate men waited for him.

“Come this way, Dr. Bernard.”

He followed, feeling strangely conspicuous, like a sacrificial victim being led to the altar. They led him into an adjoining room whose monumentality indicated plainly that it was the private chamber of the Technarch McKenzie, the embodiment of human strength and ambition.

The Technarch himself was not present in his chambers at the moment. But three other men were, and they came to attention as Bernard entered, looking him over with the tense anticipation of men who were still uncertain of their own positions.

Bernard studied them.

To his left, in the far corner of the room, stood a tall, dark-faced man whose lips were drawn down in an austere, almost gloomy scowl. His body was long and angular, seemingly strung together out of rods and pipes. He wore the somber clothes that indicated his affiliation with the Neopuritan movement. Bernard bristled instinctively; he had grown to regard the Neopuritans with open distaste, as men whose values were so far from his that no reconciliation was possible.

Closer to Bernard stood a second man, shorter, but still a little over six feet in height. He was a cheerfully affable-looking man in his early fifties, with pink close-shaven skin that radiated hearty good health and a sense of enjoyment of life. The third man in the room was short and stocky, with quick, darting black eyes and heavy frown-lines in his forehead. He seemed a packet of energy, contained but ready to burst forth at any unpredictable moment.

Bernard looked around, hiding his discomfort. “Hello,” he said, before anyone else could speak. “My name’s Martin Bernard, and I’m a sociologist, and one of the somewhat puzzled draftees for this thing. Are you three part of this outfit too, or just here to confer?”

The ruddy-faced, affable-looking man smiled warmly and put out his hand. Bernard took it. A soft hand, uncalloused, but strong nevertheless. “Roy Stone,” the man announced. “I’m basically a politician, I guess. Officially I’m the understudy for the Archon of Colonial Affairs.”

“Pleased,” Bernard muttered ritually.

“And I’m Norman Dominici,” the stocky one said, crossing the room in tense steps that added to the impression of penned-up nervous energy he gave. “I’m a biophysicist— when I’m not out on expeditions to green-faced aliens, that is. Welcome to our little band, Bernard.”

Only the Neopuritan had not offered an introduction. He remained where he was, at the wall but not leaning against it. Bernard felt irritated at the man’s lack of courtesy, but the sociologist’s innate desire for friendship got the better of him, and he turned uncertainly toward the Neopuritan, resolved to make the first overture.

“Hello?” Bernard said doubtfully.

“Watch out,” Norman Dominici warned sotto voce. “He’s just not the friendly type.”

The big man turned slowly to face Bernard. He was, the sociologist thought, a veritable hulking giant of a man—six feet seven in height, at the very least. The Neopuritan bore the aloof, withdrawn look that men sometimes develop when they grow to enormous heights at precocious ages. A ten-year-old who stands six feet tall is never really going to get very chummy with the playmates over whom he towers, and the gulf quite unsurprisingly tended to widen in later years.

“The name is Thomas Havig,” the lanky Neopuritan said in a high-pitched, reedy voice that was surprisingly thin for one so tall. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Dr. Bernard— but we’ve shared the pages of several learned periodicals in the recent past.”

Bernard’s eyes went wide with sudden amazement and consternation. Of all people…! “You’re Thomas Havig of Columbia?” he asked.

“Thomas Havig of Columbia, yes,” the big man replied. “The Thomas Havig who wrote Conjectures on the Etruscan Morphemes, Dr. Bernard.” The merest trace of a smile appeared on Havig’s thin lips. “It was an article which you didn’t seem to appreciate, I fear.”

Bernard looked at the other two men, then back at Havig.

“Why—why, I simply found myself totally unable to swallow any one of your premises, Havig. Starting from the initial statement and going right down the line through everything you said. You flatly contradicted everything we know about the Etruscan personality and culture, you wantonly attempted to distort the known body of knowledge to fit your own preconceived social philosophy, you—you simply didn’t handle the job in a way I thought proper.”

“And therefore,” Havig asked quietly, “you took it upon yourself to attempt to destroy my reputation and standing in the academic community.”

“I merely wrote a dissenting opinion,” shot back Bernard hotly. “I couldn’t let your statements stand unanswered. And the Journal saw fit to print it. It…”

“It was a malicious, slanderous article,” Havig said, without raising his voice to the level Bernard had adopted. “Under the guise of scholarship you covered me with unwarranted ridicule and cast abuse on my private beliefs…”

“Which were relevant to the argument you were presenting!”

“Nonetheless, your entire attitude, Dr. Bernard, was an unscholarly one. Your emotional attack on me clouded the issue and made it impossible for disinterested observers to see what the point of dissent between us really was. Your article was a display of wit—a quite scintillating display, I am told—but hardly a scholastic refutation.”

Stone and Dominici had stood by somewhat puzzledly through the rapid-fire interchange of accusations. Now, evidently, Stone had decided that the bickering had gone far enough. He chuckled—the mollifying chuckle of the professional diplomat—and said wryly, “Evidently you gentlemen are old friends, even though you’ve never met. Or should I say more accurately old enemies?”

Bernard glowered at the Neopuritan. Damned pious fraud, he thought. “We’ve had our disagreements scholastically,” Bernard admitted.

“You aren’t going to carry those disagreements along for ten-thousand light-years, are you?” Dominici asked. “It’s going to make things damned uncomfortable in that ship if you two will be battling over Etruscan morphemes all the while, you know.”

Bernard let a smile cross his face. He was not particularly disposed to be friendly toward Havig, but there was nothing to be gained by continuing the quarrel. The causes, he thought, lay too deep to be resolved easily. He was convinced that Havig hated him bitterly, and could not be soothed; still, the harmony of the expedition was important. Bernard said, “I suppose we can forget the Etruscans for this trip. Eh, Havig? Our quarrel was pretty small beer, after all.”

He extended his hand. After a moment the towering Neopuritan grudgingly took it. The shake was brief; hands dropped quickly back to sides. Bernard moistened his lips. He and Havig had battled viciously over what was, indeed, a minor technical point. It was one of those quarrels that specialists often engage in when their separate specialties meet at a common point of junction. But it hardly was a good omen if he and Havig were part of the same team; the fundamental gap in their beliefs would be too great to allow of any real cooperation, Bernard thought.

“Well,” said Roy Stone nervously, “we’ll be leaving almost any minute now.”

“The Technarch said we’d have at least until tonight,” Bernard said.

“Yes. But we’re all assembled, you see. And the ship and crew are ready as well. So there’s no point in delaying any farther.”

“The Technarch wastes no time,” Havig muttered darkly.

“There isn’t much time to be wasted,” Stone replied. “The quicker we get out there and deal with those aliens, the more certain we can be of preventing war between the two cultures.”

“War’s inevitable, Stone,” said Dominici doggedly. “You don’t have to be a sociologist to see that. Two cultures are colliding. We’re just wasting time and breath by going out there to head off the inevitable.”

“If that’s the way you feel,” Bernard said, “why did you agree to go along?”

“Because the Technarch asked me to go,” Dominici said simply. “I needed no better reason. But I’m not confident of success.”

The door irised open suddenly. Technarch McKenzie entered, a bulky, powerful figure in his formal robes. Technarchs were chosen for their size and bearing as well as for their qualities of mind.

“Have you four managed to introduce yourselves to each Other?” McKenzie asked.

“Yes, Excellency,” Stone said.

McKenzie smiled. “You’ll be leaving in four hours from Central Australia. We’ll use the transmat in the next room. Commander Laurance and his crew are already out there, giving the ship its final checkdown.” The Technarch’s eyes flicked meaningfully from Bernard to Havig, and back. “I’ve picked you four for your abilities, understand. I know some of you have had differences professionally. Forget them. Is that understood?”

Bernard nodded. Havig grunted assent.

“Good,” the Technarch snapped. “I’ve appointed Dr. Bernard as nominal leader of the expedition. All that means is that final decisions will rest with him in case of absolute dead-lock. If any of you object, speak up right now.”

The Technarch looked at Havig. But no one objected.

McKenzie went on, “I don’t need to tell you to cooperate with Commander Laurance and his crew in every way possible. They’re fine men, but they’ve just had one grueling voyage, and now they’re going right out again on another one. Don’t grate on their nerves. It can cost you all your lives if one of them pushes the wrong button.”

The Technarch paused as if expecting final questions. None came. Turning, he led the way to the adjoining transmat cubicle. Stone, Havig, and Dominici followed, with Bernard bringing up the rear.

We’re an odd lot to be going starward, Bernard thought. But the Technarch must know what he’s doing. At least, I hope he does.