Homecoming

Lothas draped his heavy green tail between the seat cushion and backrest. Extending a claw on a scaled, five-fingered hand, he inserted it in a slot switch and pulled down. The armored shield on the forward view bubble slowly lifted as the control center went to redlight. Lothas felt the strange pain grow in his chest as he looked through the filter at the target star, now no longer a point of light but a tiny, brilliant disc. He leaned against the backrest, his large dark eyes glittering as they drank in the sight of the star.

It has been so long. Even though I have been out of suspension for only a total of six star cycles, yet I still know it has been… seventy million star cycles. A third of a galactic cycle.

Lothas noticed his own reflection in the filter, turned his long neck left, then right, and marveled at the absence of change. The large eyes, occupying a fifth of the image, were clear and glinted with points of red, blue, and yellow light reflected from service and indicator lights. The skin, gray-green and smooth, pressed against and outlined the large veins leading from his eyes down the elongated muzzle, with its rows of thick, white, needle-sharp teeth. His focus returned to the star as he reached and pressed a panel with one of the five clawed fingers of his right hand.

"This is Lothas Dim Ir, on regular watch." He paused and examined the navigation readout, then switched to a display of the rest of the cluster formation of ships. "The formation is normal; no course corrections necessary; the homestar Amasaat now at—" he examined an instrument "—four degrees of arc."

He pressed another panel, signaling to all the watches on the rest of the ships. The display showed all but three of the two hundred ships answering. Lothas studied the display, slightly confused that he felt nothing about the missing ships. Automatic recording systems had shown the three ships wrecked by the same meteor.

But that was… millions of cycles ago. Difficult to feel pain for deaths that old.

He pressed another panel, and the display began filling with life unit survival-percentage figures transmitted by the watches on the other ships. Automatically an average was made and a total rate of survival and unit count was made. 77.031 percent; 308,124 life units surviving. Lothas nodded. There had been no change in the figure for… over thirty million star cycles. The three wrecked ships, and the others who could not survive the suspension process.

But, the rest of us shall see Nitola.

Lothas looked around at the empty control center. Moments after he gave the initiate-desuspension command, the center would be a hive of activity… a hive of activity; I wonder if the little stinging sweetsects have survived? He looked at the banks of receiving equipment, sensor and analysis piles, and the rest of the tools that the knowing ones would use to see how Nitola had changed.

But, this moment there is still quiet—this wondrous, jeweled loneliness of space. I ache for my home planet, but this, too, has become my home.

He reached out a claw and closed the shield, cutting off his view of the homestar. As the center returned to yellow light, Lothas pressed the initiate-desuspension command. As the ships answered, he listened to the sounds of life stirring in his own vessel — motors whined, draining the clear suspension from countless lengths of veins and replacing it with warm blood.

Lothas looked at the drain set into the skin of his own arm. He pulled it free and watched as the blood pooled slightly, then began clotting. He tossed the drain into a recycler. We will need them no longer. We are almost home.

Carl Baxter, garbed in regulation briefs and tee shirt, looked up from under the bed. "Where are my socks?"

The lump on the bed, sheets pulled up over her head, mumbled. "I don't wear 'em."

"It's my last pair of clean socks. Now, where are they?"

The lump pulled the sheets down, exposing a sleep-mussed tousle of black curls framing a pretty angry, face. "You'd have clean socks if you'd do the laundry more often. We both work. There's no reason why I have to be the — "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Baxter pulled out the dresser and looked behind it.

"Yeah, yeah, is it?"

"Yeah." He pushed the dresser back against the wall. "Look, it's not like we had the same kind of job, Deb. I have to be at the base at oh-six-thirty six days a week and sometimes seven. I'm lucky if I can drag it home in time for Johnny Carson. And, you want me to pitch in with the laundry, grocery shopping, housecleaning—"

"Look, supersoldier!" Deb pushed, her hair from her eyes. "You think keeping the agency going by myself is easy? Just last week that idiot layout man you hired before you were called up totally feebed the Boxman Spring campaign. I've been putting in sixteen hour days to try and have ready in time! You want laundry on top of that?"

Baxter concluded his third survey of the dresser drawers by slamming the upper right. "Why don't you hire some help? We can afford it."

Deb's eyes widened. "Yawl means dat Massa Baxter gonna let dis nappy ol' head actually hire someone? Me? a woman!"

"Oh, knock it off!" Baxter frowned and sat on the bed He put a hand on Deb's shoulder. "Look. I'm sorry Deb. I know I said no hiring until I got back, and I know it's been tough on you. Go ahead and hire whatever you need in the way of help. I'll give Boxman a call and try and straighten things out."

Deb put her hand on Baxter's and looked up into his eyes. "Carl, when is the Air Force going to be finished with you? This whole thing is so silly. One day we are running a successful advertising agency and living in a nice condo, and the next we're stuck here in the middle of nowhere in a shack that hasn't been repaired since Billy Mitchell was a P.F.C. Tell me there's a light at the end of the tunnel."

Baxter shrugged. "I don't know." He raised his head and looked at her. "That trip to Santa Barbara every day is getting you down, isn't it? Maybe you'd be happier if you stayed at home?"

"Look, Baxter, I'll stick it out as long as you do, and how much longer can that be? Your six months is almost up, isn't it?"

Baxter stood up and resumed his search for the missing pair of socks. "You think I might have left them in the living room?"

Deb's face developed an instant frown. "Isn't it?"

"Isn't what?"

She shook her head and pounded on the mattress with her fists. "Oh, no! You didn't! Tell me you didn't get extended, Baxter! Tell me you didn't, or I'll brain you with the alarm clock!"

He sighed, shrugged, scratched his head, then held out his hands. "I didn't have any choice, Deb — "

"Oooooooooo! You… you… monster!" She threw off the covers, swung her legs to the floor, then stormed off to the bathroom. The door slammed, then clicked.

"Deb?" Baxter walked to the door. "Deb, honey? Don't lock yourself in, honey. I still have to shave."

"Go away."

"Deb, I'm all they have in public relations right now to promote the Air Force's argument for the combined shuttle, not to mention the new bomber, and the— "

The door opened, a pair of socks flew out, and the door slammed shut.

Wearing one regulation blue and one not-so-regulation yellow and red Argyle sock in addition to his uniform, Captain Carl F. Baxter pulled away in the blue staff car assigned to him. He came to the cross-street stop sign, screeched to a halt, and rummaged through the glove compartment for his electric shaver. A honk came from behind, and Baxter looked over the top of the headrest to check the honker's rank. Seeing only single golden bars, he returned to his search. Damned thing has got to be in here.

His hand closed on the ancient Remington, a gift from his mother-in-law, and he sat up and removed the cap. The driver behind honked again, and Baxter extended a finger in the Hawaiian good luck tradition, then returned to the shaver. With an angry squeal of tires, the lieutenant pulled around Baxter's car, ignored the stop sign, and pulled out onto the base's main drag. With his shaver humming, Baxter pulled out and turned right.

Baxter caught a flash of a sign, "ODQ—D7," recalling Deb's comment when she first saw it. "This is our new home? Oh, I like the name; it's so much nicer than Hollywood Hills or Sutton Place." He snorted and leaned on the accelerator as he came abreast of the parking ramp for the experimental aircraft. Deb was ready with a comment for that, too. "Oh, what a nice view —Baxter, I want a divorce!" She didn't really, but she was not happy, and neither was Baxter. An experienced test pilot, he had left the Air Force during the testing cutbacks of the late sixties to begin his own advertising agency. As a reserve officer, he had assumed that, if he ever was called up, it would be as a pilot. But, the Air Force had found his advertising skills much more desirable, and dropped him in public relations. Baxter glanced out of the side window at the black, needle-pointed craft on the ramp being readied for a test. Dammit, it is a beautiful view!

He turned back to his driving and concentrated on missing the larger pieces of traffic. The Congressional delegation would show up in two days, and the presentation on the combined shuttle was still in search of a theme —or at least a theme less obvious than "Gimmie bucks!"

Then, there was the still the planning board in town to deal with. The proposed recruiting facility violated the town's zoning ordinances, and it was feather-smoothing time. Even though Federal departments aren't obligated to be governed by local zoning regulations, bad press is still bad press. The theme: cram the new facility down their throats, but in a manner that makes it look like the Air Force is doing the town a big favor.

The Concerned Women from town still had to have a number done on them. In the office, the group was known as the Anti-Slop Chute and Whorehouse League. The dear ladies objected to men from the base supplying a market in town for the growing number of bars and ladies of negotiable virtue. Theme?

Perhaps we could have all the men castrated, ladies. How would that be? Baxter chuckled, then resumed his sober expression as he remembered the school board had to be dealt with. The screams over supporting the educations of the base's dependent children were getting loud, and the charge that a group of Air Force brats had introduced pot to their playmates was no help… "Ah, nuts!"

Baxter drove it all from his mind as he pulled up to the guard shack at the security gate. An AP, three times larger than life, with a jaw the size, shape, and color of a cinder block, saluted and bent down to the car's window. "Captain Baxter?"

Baxter nodded. "Yes, I'm Baxter."

"Carl F.?"

"That's right."

The AP opened the door and motioned with his hand. "Please slide over, sir."

"What?"

"I'm supposed to drive you to a security area, Captain. Please, slide over."

Baxter reached for the door and tried to pull it shut. The AP's grip on the door might as well have been a ton of reinforced concrete. Baxter looked into the guard shack and saw Wilson, one of the regular AP's on the gate. "Wilson, will you call off this trained gorilla? I have a lot of work to do today, and no time to fool around."

Wilson stood in the doorway and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Captain, but Inovsky has his orders."

Baxter looked at the gorilla. "Inovsky, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"You sure you got the right Air Force, Inovsky?"

The AP unsnapped the cover on his holster. "Please, Captain Baxter. Slide over."

Baxter shrugged and put the car in park. "Sure. Why not?" He slid over and watched as the huge AP slid in, slammed the door, then squealed off, heading the car in the direction of the experimental parking ramp. "What's this all about?"

The AP shook his head. "I don't know, Captain. I was detailed to get you to the experimental station." The man cracked his first smile. "But, with all the brass that's been landed out on the field during the past hour, it looks like you're going to see some important people."

"How important?"

"The Secretary of Defense, the base commander, and just about everything in between, from what I hear."

Baxter looked out of the window on his side, and tried to inch his right trouser leg down over his Argyle sock.

"A question rests without answer in my mind, Lothas."

Lothas turned away from the side port where he had been drinking in the sights of the blue-white planet Nitola—now called Earth. Medp stood next to him. "Medp, have the knowing ones among you time now for idle thoughts?" Both of them looked at Nitola.

"What is the question, Medp?"

Medp nodded in the direction of the planet. "How does a race such as that select a representative to treat with us?"

"The hue-muns?" Lothas paused, wondering how his own race would have reacted at the news of seventy-million-cycle-old visitors from the past. "I cannot even speculate, Medp." Lothas held out a clawed hand. "All those separate tribes, such confusion—I know not." He turned toward Medp. "How are the surveys progressing?"

Medp looked at a readout strapped to his wrist. "We have over twenty distinct languages, with as yet uncounted dialects, entered in the lingpile, and this from only their radio and television. Many more languages are yet to be entered. However, the tribe who is sending the representative speaks the English, and that we have entered in quantity."

Lothas turned back to the view port. "And, the other surveys?"

"Everything is much as predicted. Residual radiation is negligible; vegetable and animal life is reestablished, although the forms are highly mutated. As I said, it is all much as predicted."

Lothas nodded toward Nitola. "All except this hue-muns creature. That we did not predict." He reached up and touched a panel that dropped armor over the view port, then turned to Medp. "I have a question of my own, knowing one."

"Speak."

Lothas lowered himself into a couch and closed his eyes. "How would we choose a representative, Medp, if the positions were reversed?"

"That is easily answered; we would send the wisest of our race. Nothing less could serve such a moment."

Lothas nodded. "Perhaps the hue-muns will do the same."

Baxter looked around the room at the circle of seated high-ranking officers and officials. "What in the ever-loving, four-color-processed Hell are you people talking about?"

The Secretary of Defense looked at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Chairman and the Secretary of the Air Force both looked at Baxter's base commander, General Stayer. Stayer's glance seemed to lower the room's temperature by twenty degrees. "You don't understand, Captain. You aren't being asked; you're being ordered. You're it."

Baxter found a chair and lowered himself into it. He realized that he was coming across as being a little wild-eyed, and he took several deep breaths before he continued. "Gentlemen, what I do not understand is how I drew the black marble on this one. It's been seven, no, eight years since I flew anything even resembling the Python."

An unnamed colonel seated next to the Secretary of the Air Force leaned forward. "Captain, you are familiar with the XK-17 Python, are you not?"

Baxter shrugged and shook his head. "Only for publicity purposes. I never flew it, or even checked out in it. The things I know are things people want to know, like cost figures, performance—"

"And, all your tickets are up to date?"

Baxter held out his hands, then dropped them. "Yes."

"And you are in top physical shape?"

Baxter nodded again. "But, Colonel — "

The colonel held up a hand. "Captain, you will be surprised how fast we can check you out in the XK-17 — "

"Colonel!" Baxter was startled by the loudness of his own voice. "Colonel, there must be at least five pilots I can name who are checked out on the Python, and who are on the base right now."

General Stayer gave a curt wave of his hand at the Colonel. "Let's cut through the crap. Baxter, you're it. None of those pilots are trained in public relations. You are."

"What about whatsisface? The astronaut in the Senate?"

Stayer shook his head. "Too old, his tickets aren't up to date, and we can't locate him. He's somewhere in Canada right now, fishing." The general leaned forward and pointed a finger at Baxter's throat. "You are the closest thing to a flying diplomat that we can get off the ground within the next twenty-four hours, because the Python is the only vehicle ready to go right now."

The Secretary of Defense moved his head a fraction of an inch, signaling his desire to speak. "If I may, General?"

"Of course, Mr. Secretary."

The secretary, a blown-dry glory in four-hundred-dollar pin stripes, let his gaze wander around the room as he talked. "Captain Baxter, I realize you are being asked to perform a difficult task, but we have little choice. The…"he waved a hand up in the air "… aliens, or whatever they are, made a broadband contact. In other words, their invitation was extended to whomsoever can make it up there. The Russians, of course, will get there, but—" he held up a finger, "it will take them at least three days to get off the ground. Am I making myself clear?"

Baxter folded his hands over his belly and nodded. "Yes, Mr. Secretary."

The secretary nodded. "Good. While you are there, you will be in constant touch with the Department of State, and with the White House. There will always be someone with whom you can consult on any matter."

Baxter nodded and smiled. "This is what I mean, Mr. Secretary. If all I'm supposed to do is carry a radio for the State Department, why not use another—qualified—pilot? I don't see what particular use my training in public relations will be."

The secretary nodded. "You must know the value in eyeball-to-eyeball negotiations, Captain. When you deal with groups and committees on behalf of the Air Force, do you telephone or appear in person?"

Baxter nodded, noting the chains being locked in place. "And what am I supposed to attempt to accomplish?"

"Your meaning?"

"Mr. Secretary, the only purpose of public relations, or diplomacy for that matter, is to get people to do things that they would normally not do. If everyone did what we wanted, there would be no need for PR types or diplomats. Now, just what is it that I am supposed to get them to do?"

The secretary frowned. "I don't know."

"You don't know!"

"Captain, if these beings are what they say they are —inhabitants of Earth from over seventy million years ago —it is possible that they are thinking of reclaiming the planet for themselves. In such a case, discourage them." The secretary raised his eyebrows and held out his hands. "However, they may be from another solar system and bent on conquering Earth. Then, perhaps, in either case, it may prove beneficial to have them on our side. They are obviously more advanced… but, then again, it might be better to sic them on the Russians." The secretary dropped his hands into his lap. "All I can say, Baxter, is look out for the interests of your country, and the interests of your planet and the human race, while you're at it."

An hour later, as two technicians stood waiting to help him into his pressure suit, Baxter remembered that he had forgotten to telephone Boxman about the Boxman Spring account. He sat down on a cold metal bench and untied his shoes. Security on the base was locked up tighter than a million uninflated dollars, and no calls allowed. Deb! I can't call her! She'll kill me! He removed his red and yellow Argyle sock and held it in his hand. It had a hole in it. I guess it's just going to be one of those days.

Lothas studied the circle of eight faces seated around the polished black table in the half-light of the governor's conference compartment, aft of the control center. Deayl brushed a clawed hand over his muzzle, then let the hand drop to the surface of the table. "Lothas, it is still my mind that we wait no longer. The hue-muns are divided, and they have nothing that can protect them against the Power. We can brush them aside."

Lothas examined the other faces. "How many of you have this mind?" Four clawed hands went forward toward the center of the table. "The mind that counsels us to wait, then, still prevails."

Deayl put two fists on the table and turned to the ones who had not voted with him. "After seventy million cycles traveling from and to our home, we are to sit here polishing our claws? We are so close!"

Lothas noted that two who had voted with him were wavering. The desire to go home was strong, and Deayl's argument appealed to that desire. The desire twisted with no less strength in Lothas, but he held out his hands. "Our knowledge of the hue-muns is but pieces —what they are, and what they can do. The hue-muns' knowledge of us is even less —what we are, and what we can do." He lowered his hands to the table. "We must also grant that the sense of right we feel in our cause is shared by the hue-muns in their cause. They grew to dominate and control Nitola, much as we did. By what we acknowledge to be the right—"

"No!" Deayl crossed his wrists. All could hear the angry swishing of his tail across the deck. "We do not know that. What if the hue-muns are from another planet? What if they invaded our home planet, and now simply stand to defend their conquest?"

Lothas nodded. "The hue-muns must have like suspicions about us, Deayl. After all, they are on the planet; we are the ones in space ships." He brought his hands together. "We have much to learn about each other, if we are to avoid error." Lothas looked around the table and stopped on Deayl. "Do you wish another vote?"

Deayl leaned against his back rest. "No. Not at the present."

Medp entered the compartment, bowed toward those seated at the table, then turned toward Lothas. "We have just been told that the hue-muns' representative has been launched. Other hue-muns, speaking the Russian, have said that the true representative will be launched in three days, and that we should refuse to see the other."

Lothas looked at the table top, then raised his glance and looked at Deayl. "We do have much to learn. Deayl, I will leave to you the task of instructing our visitor in what we can do. If hue-muns understand the Power, they will understand our power."

"Yes, Lothas."

Lothas stood and bowed toward the ones seated at the table. The others stood and bowed in return. Lothas turned toward the control center and entered, Medp at his side. "Medp, do you have contact with the representative?"

"Yes. He is called Captaincarlbaxter."

Lothas nodded. "Is everything in readiness?"

"Yes. It will take him approximately a tenth of a cycle to come into safe power range."

Lothas tucked his tail between the seat and backrest of a chair before a monitor and sat down. He lifted his head and looked at Medp. "Deayl will sway some minds before the council sits again."

Medp nodded and pointed at the monitor. Nitola hung blue-white in the blackness of space. "The feeling is very strong, Lothas. All of us can see, and… we have been away for a very long time."

Lothas turned toward the monitor, studied once more the beautiful planet, then nodded. "Have you assembled enough information to comprehend this squabble and division among the hue-muns?"

Medp shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "We can see a little. We have determined from their transmissions, and our sensor surveys support this, that there are over four billion hue-muns belonging to the various tribes."

"Four billion?"

"And, they grow in numbers every day. This does not explain all, but it lets us see a little."

Lothas changed the positions on several slotswitches, then energized a panel, causing a tiny dot to appear on the monitor. He pressed another panel, and the dot expanded until the monitor was filled with an image of a sleek, black ship, just separating from a cluster of acceleration tubes. "Such a tiny craft. Have you come to a determination about the hue-muns' rite called humor?"

"It is exasperating. The loud reaction—the laughing, chuckling and so on—appears to be pleasurable. But, the causes of the reaction—pain, misfortune, shame, misunderstanding—all are causes of grief as well." Medp looked at the monitor. "It needs more information for sense to be made of it. Still, they are fascinating creatures. I could devote my remaining cycles to studying them."

Lothas extended a claw toward the monitor. "Part of your wish approaches now, Medp: Your first specimen, Captaincarlbaxter."

Baxter was surprised at how familiar everything was. The wing drop from the mother plane, the slam of the initial and secondary burns, even the attitude correction rockets. He looked out of the tiny canopy windows, little more than a hand's breadth from his faceplate, to see himself floating on the outer limits of Earth's atmosphere. Above, the sky was star-studded black. He searched the space above for a visual sighting, but could see nothing. He looked down, and the cluster of ships was indicated clearly on his screen. As he studied the screen, he finally realized what he was about to do. The frustrations of the morning and the skull-popping briefing by the Python's pilot, plus frantic phone conversations with several Undersecretaries of State, along with a brief inspirational call from the President, faded as the thought of meeting… whoever they are, filled his mind.

This is a bigger event than walking on the moon. This is what generations of movie makers and novelists have speculated about.

"Messenger, this is Mission Control."

Baxter opened his channel. "This is Messenger. Go ahead."

"Messenger, we're patching you into a line connected with the State Department. Stand by."

Baxter listened to a series of clicks, howls, and crackles. "Captain Baxter, this is Undersecretary Wyman. Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Mr. Wyman."

"Baxter, our most recent information on the Soviet mission indicates that they will have a man up in less than three days. They are sending Lavr Razin. Razin is a former cosmonaut, now attached to the Soviet mission to the U.N. Understand?"

"Affirmative. Can you tell me anything about him?"

The channel went dead for long moments, then came to life. "Baxter, since we don't know, we are assuming that none of our transmissions are secure from the… visitors." Another pause. "We can tell you to watch out. Razin is no Fozzie Bear, savvy?"

"Affirmative."

"Goodbye, and good luck, Baxter."

Baxter signed off with Mission Control, wishing that Undersecretary Wyman's goodbye hadn't sounded so final. He gave his instruments a casual sweep, then looked out of the left side canopy window. Green fire danced upon the Python's skin. "Captaincarlbaxter?"

"This is Messenger. Go ahead, Mission Control."

A long pause. "I am called Deayl. Are you Captaincarlbaxter?"

A strange feeling began tugging at Baxter's stomach. The voice sounded… ultranormal—the ideal of every midwestern radio announcer. "Yes, this is Baxter."

"Greetings. Our instruments inform us that, unless you remove the force of your engines, you will be destroyed." Baxter turned back to his own instruments. Every dial was either pegged or dead. "We have you in the grip of our power. With it, we shall bring you into our control ship. It will not harm you, unless you fail to turn off your engines."

Baxter raised a gloved hand, hesitated, then began punching and flicking switches according to the Python's shutdown SOP. "The craft is shut down… Deayl."

"Sensible. I am curious, Captaincarlbaxter. What were you hue-muhs seventy million years ago?"

Baxter swallowed and tried to recall his ten minute high-speed briefing on the lineage of Man. "After all, Baxter, they may want to establish the authenticity of our claim to this planet." "At that stage, we were prosimians — the apes hadn't evolved yet. You know what I mean when I say 'apes'?"

"Yes. We have seen them on your transmissions."

Baxter frowned. What if those guys can pick up every radio and T. V. transmission on Earth ? They could assemble quite a body of information. "Interesting."

"What did the prosimians look like?"

"Well, I understand that they were small, long-tailed creatures that resembled present-day squirrels. Probably, they were adept at securing food by leaping about in the trees, eating fruit, seeds, eggs—"

"Ah, the tree jontyl. I recognize them. That is very curious, Captaincarlbaxter. Tree jontyls were very well-known to my race when we occupied this planet. My mouth has been watering for one for over seventy million years. I am looking forward to seeing you."

They called themselves Nitolans —Earthlings in another tongue. As his craft approached the ship in the lead center of the armada of Nitolan vessels, Baxter felt the awe he experienced when, as a boy often, he had been taken into St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York. One hundred and ninety-seven ships, and any one of them large enough to dwarf a supertanker. The ships were long, cylindrical, and with ridges along the sides that could be retractable wings. As he observed the smooth skin and flowing configuration of the ships, Baxter realized that the vessels were designed for atmospheric flight. "Captaincarlbaxter?"

"This is Baxter. Deayl?"

A pause. "This is Deayl. This shortening of the name; is this a friendly gesture of you hue-muns?"

"Yes… everybody just calls me 'Baxter'—even my wife."

"Your mate?"

Baxter nodded to himself. "Yes."

Another pause. "Very well, Baxter. I will accept this gesture in kind. I am known as Illya…" Baxter listened while the Nitolan supervising his approach seemed to be wrestling with a thought. "This gesture, Baxter. Understand that it does not obligate me to anything."

Baxter smiled. This guy could have come straight from a Middle East peace conference. "I understand, Illya. Is there anything I should know about being taken into your ship's landing bay?"

"If your craft has surface landing apparatus that is now retracted, you should prepare it. Otherwise, we can suspend your craft in a neutral field. Air will be normal to you."

Baxter noted the existence of artificial gravity. None of the ships were spinning. The Python landed on two fixed rear skids and a nose wheel. He threw the switch and felt the wheel lower and lock as his eyes confirmed the event by observing the safe/go light for the landing gear. "Landing gear down and locked, Illya."

"Noted."

Baxter watched as the underside (toward Earth) of the ship opened, much like the iris of a camera. Dull red light came from the bay, and as the Python closed on the iris, Baxter felt a slight panic at the size of the opening, then at the size of the bay. I feel like a pea rattling around in a fifty-five gallon drum!

The Python rose just above the opening, and Baxter watched open-mouthed as the enormous iris blinked shut. His craft was gently lowered to the deck, and he let out his breath. He checked his instruments, shut down the works, and waited. In the distance he could see four jumbo-jet-sized ships parked off to the side. The bay switched from red to yellow light, and Baxter's mouth remained open as a hatch opened and a delegation of gray-green, long-necked, heavy-tailed creatures entered.

They walked toward him on powerful legs with clawed feet. Although bipedal, they stooped forward, carrying their long, thin arms in front. Baxter's gaze went from the clawed toes to the clawed fingers, then to the gleaming rows of teeth. As he unstrapped, removed his helmet and cracked the Python's canopy, Baxter ran a dry tongue over equally dry lips. He stood, stepped over the side of the cockpit, pushing his toes into the step holes, and climbed down from his craft. He turned as the delegation of creatures came to a halt. Stooped over, the creatures were only a little taller than himself. One of them rotated its body, bringing its neck and head well above the others. Baxter cleared his throat and croaked, "I bring you greetings from the President of the United States."

Deayl watched the scene of the docking bay reception a moment longer, then closed his eyes. If so long ago we had not abandoned our gods. If I could only lay my burden at the feet of old Sisal, or old Fane. He extended a claw and shut off the monitor. Energizing another monitor, he watched Nitola, and his pain eased.

I do not do it for myself, but for all of us. He kept his eyes on the image as he pressed the signal to Lothas' quarters.

"Lothas."

"Deayl, Lothas. Baxter has landed safely, and Medp brings him now to the quarters prepared for him."

"Deayl, is 'Baxter' the representative's name of friendship?"

Deayl lowered his muzzle to his chest. "Yes. And I extended mine to him."

"This is good. He shall rest for the remainder of the cycle, then you shall demonstrate to him the Power. I shall meet with him after."

"All will be as you wish, Lothas."

"Deayl, with your mind concerning the return to Nitola, exchanging names with the hue-muns was a fine gesture." A pause, as though Lothas expected some sort of comment. "Deayl, I know you disapprove of my direction as governor, but I know you to be a strong and determined champion of our race. I would exchange names with you. I am called 'Dimmis.'"

Deayl wiped a shaking hand over his muzzle, then nodded. "I am called 'Illya.' "

"A home for you, Illya."

Deayl pressed the panel, extended his fingers, and placed his palms over his eyes. Ah! Ah, it comes! The pain returns. How many disgraces must I bring upon myself before my task is done? How many?

In his quarters, Baxter sagged as he tried to get comfortable in the strange chair. As near as he could figure it, he had just completed a three kilometer dead run from the docking bay, trying to keep up with the delegation. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. The white bulkheads were bare, except for the three iris-like doors. One door led to a closet, another to the corridor, and the third to a bathroom straight from one of Baxter's more imaginative nightmares. He had been literally relieved to find that he could use the equipment, although with some difficulty. On the deck, several thick cushions were arranged for sleeping. His chair had a black metal frame and was upholstered with a soft green fabric. Baxter sat on one side of the seat, since the center-rear was open to comfortably seat the Nitolan tail. The backrest, tilted forward to accommodate the creatures' stooping backs, dug into Baxter's shoulderblades. His ankles reached to the edge of the seat.

He reached to his belt and pressed the switch to his radio that, through the relay set in the Python, would keep him in touch with Earth. "Mission Control, this is Messenger."

"Messenger, report on your situation."

"I'm established in quarters. At the moment, I'm supposed to be resting… although that's going to be a little difficult. At about oh-four-hundred GMT tomorrow, I'll be taken on some kind of demonstration, then meet Lothas. The best their language mechanics can make out of his title is 'governor.' Then, whatever negotiations there will be will begin."

"Acknowledged, Messenger. From now on, until you begin preparations for reentry, your communications will be handled by the State Department mission control. Stand by."

Baxter looked down from the chair at the knee-high thick pallet on the deck that would serve him as a bed during his stay. "Baxter, this is Wyman. Do you read?"

"Five by five, Mr. Wyman."

"Good. What have you found out?"

"The Nitolans, first. They look like a cross between a kangaroo, an ostrich and an alligator; general shape for the first, eyes for the second, claws and teeth for the third —lots of teeth. The head is pretty large."

"I understand, Baxter. The ships?"

"Incredible."

"Could you be more specific?"

"The ships are enormous. I can't even tell you how wide they are. Everything seemed to extend out of sight. But, I'm pretty sure they are monitoring our commercial radio and television broadcasts. The lingpile—the thing they use to convert their language into and out of English—talks like Merv Griffin. They have some sort of force field or tractor beam that pulled me into their lead ship, and I think the same thing allows them to simulate gravity on board. Gravity appears to be Earth normal, and there appears to be no inducement of this by centrifugal force or other physical means. That's it, except that they seem friendly —and curious."

"Baxter, do they appear secretive or evasive about themselves?"

Baxter shook his head. "Not that I can tell. In fact, they provided me with a reader of some kind in case I wanted some diversion when I wasn't sleeping. They prepared something for me that contains a nutshell history of them, their mission, and so on."

"You will begin on it at once, Baxter."

"Mr. Wyman, I'm a little bushed right now—"

"At once, Baxter! Until we know more, all of us are groping in the dark-including you. Now, do your homework."

"Yessir."

"One more thing, Baxter."

"Go ahead."

"We must establish to a certainty from where they came. If they, in fact, have come from Earth's past, we must be sure. Do you have any indications other than their appearance? Things they've said? Answers to your questions?"

"Mr. Wyman, I haven't asked them Babe Ruth's all-time batting average, or the words to 'Yankee Doodle,' if that's what you're talking about."

"I understand. I'll see about preparing a suitable list of questions—things based on our knowledge of the period they claim to be from. Is there anything you need?"

Baxter thought a moment. "How is all this striking the public?"

"Officially, we are denying everything, and so are the Soviets, but rumors are spreading fast. Too many people picked up that initial broadband contact, although it hasn't grown serious yet."

"What about the Russian?"

"Launch is still go for the day after tomorrow. We still don't have a line on what they plan to pull. That it?"

"Yes. Baxter out." He released the switch, sighed and slid to the front edge of the seat, then dropped to the floor. The edge of the seat came to his waist. Baxter walked to the door panel, reached up and pressed the platter-sized button with both hands. Part of the wall dilated iris fashion, exposing a wide corridor and a Nitolan standing guard. The creature walked to the opening, its heavy tail scraping harshly against the deck, and stooped in Baxter's direction.

"May I help you, Captaincarlbaxter? I am Simdna."

Baxter nodded and pointed at the swept-screened contraption attached to a chair by a swinging metal brace. "Yes. Medp said that I could use the reader if I wanted, but I am ignorant of its operation." Baxter walked to the reader chair, climbed up and settled in as the Nitolan followed, then pushed the reader more closely to the chair. "Now, what do I do?"

Simdna picked up two pancake-sized tabs and held them out to Baxter. "Put one on each side of your head. They will attach themselves."

Baxter held one tab in each hand, then held them to the sides of his head. "What now?"

Simdna pointed toward a panel. "This will begin the record." He pointed at a slotswitch. "The more you pull this toward you, the faster will run the record."

Baxter nodded. "Thank you. I don't think I'll need anything else."

Simdna turned, left the room and the door closed after him. Baxter studied the screen then looked at the panel for starting. He leaned forward and pushed it with the palm of his hand. At once, a feeling of mild intoxication swept him. It stayed as he pulled the switch, and images and narratives attacked his senses at high input levels. He realized this, but realized also that he understood it all, as fast as it was. He pulled again at the slotswitch…

… The Nitolans were a highly-evolved race, with self-made imperatives of right and wrong, a structured social system, great cities, long before man thought these even to exist. In the midst of the great reptiles, the Nitolans had science, law, and the creation of wealth, for the Power was theirs. They studied truth…

… And the knowing ones read their instruments and saw the death of every creature that could not hide within the mud or beneath the waters. The night brightstar would grow in brilliance, until it washed all other stars from the sky, and even paled Amasaat from the day sky. To survive, the Nitolans must leave the planet for as long as the planet took to again become green and alive with creatures.

While the wisest of the knowing ones searched the future for a time that would serve the race, others of the knowing ones spread across Nitola to tell the things that they had learned. "We must leave Nitola, else the race shall die."… Many believed and helped to construct the great ships that would protect precious cargo through the vacuum of space and the emptiness of time. Others did not believe and the Power was turned against itself as the factions decided the issue through blood.

As the ships were completed, the war concluded, and the victors gathered among the ships to depart Nitola. The knowing ones looked at their planet and saw the ravaged cities, the gaping wounds of mines and quarries, their own structures for building the ships. They wondered if this evidence, if left behind, would lead an alien visitor or a newly evolved race to find them and destroy them as they crossed the void. The Power was turned against the cities, and the other marks they had made, removing all trace of their existence. Then, they swept the planet and removed all traces of the substance of the Power, should they return to find a newly evolved race using the Power and turning it against the homecomers.

When all was done, the ships were filled, the travelers' life processes were slowed, and the journey begun…

"There are many of us who share your mind, Deayl."

Deayl looked from Nozn to his companion Suleth, then back to Nozn. "My mind has been voted down by the council. What brings you to my quarters?"

Nozn studied Deayl. "We read the piles and can see what the hue-muns do. Many of us would not wait until the creatures render Nitola unfit for habitation."

Deayl turned away and studied a blank wall. "If there are such as you talk about, they would disgrace themselves by acting against the common mind."

Suleth looked from Nozn to Deayl. "We have had enough of these word games, Deayl. Do you plan to take an action?"

"Action?"

Suleth nodded. "Will you lead us?"

Deayl lowered himself to his sleeping pallet, placed his head on his cushion, and looked up at the overhead. "I will speak with you two later."

Nozn placed a clawed hand on Suleth's arm to quiet him, then nodded at Deayl. "It is my mind that this task would be bonded by our exchanging of names. Is this your mind as well, Deayl?"

Deayl rolled over and propped himself up with an elbow. His black eyes fixed Nozn to the deck. "No! Treason to our race is no excuse for friendship!" He lowered himself back to his cushion. "Leave me now. I will call you if I wish to converse further."

Nozn and Suleth bowed and left Deayl's quarters. Deayl rolled to his left side, his eyes tightly shut. I belittle myself enough by the enterprise I have undertaken. I shall not suck others into the same mire. He opened his eyes and spoke to a dark corner of the compartment. "You are my governor, Lothas, and you speak for the common mind." Deayl sighed. "But, you stand between us and our home. Isn't yours the greater crime?" Deayl closed his eyes and tossed. The question was yet to be answered in his own mind.

Midway through the next planetary cycle, Baxter bid farewell to his Nitolan friend Illya, then entered his quarters and flopped onto his sleeping pallet. He detached the insulated gloves from his suit, threw them aside and placed his hands against his cheeks. His face felt drained of color. Without rising, Baxter keyed his transceiver. "State, this is Messenger." He opened his eyes and looked at the overhead. "State, this is Messenger. Do you read?"

"Go ahead, Baxter. This is Wyman."

Baxter licked his lips, took a deep breath, then sat up. "Wyman, are there any manned missions on the Moon—secret things that I don't know about?"

"I'm sure there aren't, but I can check it for you. Is it important?"

"It's important. I also want to know if the Soviets have anything on the Lunar surface, and if so, where."

"Understood. What's going on, Baxter?"

Baxter shook his head. I'm rattled, that's what's going on. Calm down.

"I was taken on a demonstration today. It's a thing they call 'the power.' I saw a quarter of the Lunar surface turned into glass in less time than it's taking me to tell you about it." Baxter licked his lips again. "My guide took me down about two hours later and I walked the surface. The dark side now has a mare that makes Imbrium, Serenity, and Tranquility together look like a wading pool." The radio remained silent. "Did you copy that, Wyman?"

"Baxter, what is your feeling about it?"

Baxter's eyes widened. "My feeling? How in the Hell do you think I feel about it? If these lizards want to, they can fry my entire planet in about twenty minutes!"

"What I meant, Baxter, is your feeling about the purpose of the demonstration."

Baxter thought a moment, then flushed. "I suppose its purpose was to produce exactly the kind of hysterical gibbering I've been doing; correct?"

"Correct. Look, Baxter; you are not dealing with an overweight Congressional committee or the local school board. You can't make a mistake, then go back and patch it up later with an apology or some syrup from the White House. You have to keep your head clear and your feelings out of it, while you look for angles, feel out the edges, find out where to push, and where to back off. You understand?"

Baxter shook his head. "You diplomatic types have all the sensitivity of an oyster."

State paused for a long moment. "It's not lack of feelings, Baxter; it's called guts. Grow some. Wyman out."

Baxter released the key on his transceiver, stood, and began shucking his pressure suit. At least I wasn't as rattled as Deayl. The Nitolan had walked the Lunar surface with him, and had been strangely quiet. Deayl's answers to direct questions were brief, shaken, and almost incoherent. I wonder what my old buddy Illya was nervous about?

The iris to Baxter's compartment opened and the Nitolan called Simdna entered. "I extend an invitation from Lothas, our governor, to meet with him in private before you meet with the full council."

Baxter nodded. "I am most happy to accept his invitation." I'm already beginning to talk like a diplomat. "When does Lothas wish to see me?"

"Is it convenient for you to come now?"

"Yes."

Simdna backed away from the door and held out a clawed hand. "Then Lothas would see you now."

On the way to his quarters, Deayl sagged against the corridor wall. He turned his head up, then closed his eyes and let his muzzle drop to his chest. The claws on his fingers dug into his palms, the pain almost blotting out the waves of self-condemnation that threatened to drive his mind empty. He heard the sound of someone approaching, and he pushed himself away from the wall and opened his eyes. It was Nozn.

"There you are, Deayl."

"Here I am."

Nozn turned back, and seeing the corridor empty, returned his gaze to Deayl. "The hue-mun still lives, Deayl. If you cannot perform the task, leave it to someone who can."

Deayl hissed, his eyes sparking. "You forget your place, Nozn!"

Nozn closed his eyes and performed a shallow bow. "I meant no disrespect, Deayl."

"I shall do what needs to be done, and with no one's help. That I can keep all others but myself clean from this act is my only claim to honor. Do not take this from me by becoming involved."

Nozn bowed again. "It will be as you wish, Deayl." He stood and half-turned to go. "But, if you should fail, there are others who will not." Nozn nodded once, then moved off down the corridor.

Deayl placed a hand against the corridor wall, turned his gaze toward the deck plates, and saw the glassy surface of Naal, the child-moon of Nitola. Baxter had stood on the thin crust of the molten pool, and it would have taken only a slight shove to have removed the creature from existence. The Council would have accepted the event as an accident, while the humans on the planet would have… Are the hue-muns that sensitive that they would attempt retaliation on the basis of one suspicious death? Will they adopt an attitude that will make their removal the only option left to the Council, for just one death? Deayl wiped his hand over his muzzle, then let it drop to his side. Or, will the hue-muns' tribes be more reflective, making the murder I will commit a futile gesture ?

Deayl, still supporting himself by moving his hand along the corridor wall, walked the few remaining steps to his quarters. He pressed the panel and the iris opened. Inside, the compartment was black, making the door appear as the dark, slathering maw of some nightmare-begotten creature. If the hue-muns know it is a murder, the Council will as well. But, perhaps this is the only way—exchange my future for the future of my race. Deayl stepped into the iris, and it closed behind him.

Baxter stared at the upholstered, wing-backed chair in disbelief. From its wooden claw-on-ball legs to the garish oranges and yellows of the fabric, the chair appeared to have been cloned from a discount department store's loss leader. He looked over to Lothas. The Nitolan governor reclined on several of the familiar thick cushions. "Where did you get this?" Baxter held out a hand toward the chair.

"Do you like it? I hope it is comfortable."

Baxter lowered himself into it, did one or two experimental bounces, then leaned back and crossed his legs. "It's fine."

"That pleases me, Captaincarlbaxter. It was constructed according to information gleaned from your television transmissions. It was felt that you might find our furniture out of size."

Baxter smiled. "Thank you very much… do I call you 'governor'?"

"I am Lothas. If you would exchange names, I am called Dimmis."

Baxter nodded. "Very well, Dimmis. I am called Baxter. I appreciate the chair very much."

"Another like it will be placed in your quarters, and one more in the conference compartment where you will meet with my council."

"Excellent." Baxter wondered if he should mention something about the horrible pattern, but decided against it.

"We can prepare you one of your beds, if you wish."

Baxter held up his hands. "Thank you, but that would be quite unnecessary. I find the cushions in my quarters very comfortable."

Lothas nodded. "Baxter, you know of us and our mission, do you not?"

"Yes. I watched the record you prepared before I slept."

The governor nodded again. "Still, you know too little of us, and we, too little of you." The Nitolan sat up and pulled a table console to where he could reach it. "The knowing ones have amassed a great deal of information from your radio and television, and from the visual and sensor surveys they have done. Still, we know too little to judge properly what we should do."

Baxter nodded. These lizards don't know what to do any more than I do. "I understand. If you will tell me the information you want, perhaps I can arrange to get it for you."

"We understand that your information storage piles can talk to each other, is this not true?"

Baxter nodded. "Yes. Computers."

"The information we need appears to be contained in a number of your… computers. I would like to send three of our knowing ones down to a place that can talk to your computers."

"I'll see if I can arrange it."

Lothas sat quietly for a moment, then lifted his head. "There is much, Baxter, that we must learn about each other, as well."

Baxter followed the direction of the governor's gaze and saw nothing but an inverted green dome set into the overhead. He looked back at Lothas and shrugged. "I agree, we must…"

Baxter's vision blurred as Lothas removed a hand from the console beside his cushion bed.

"It is good you agreed, Baxter. Trust is important." Lothas's hand rose to the console, and Baxter felt himself expanding, whirling up and out, as the compartment went black.

He felt his gorge rise as he realized he was standing off to one side observing while another thumbed and sorted through his memories. From memories to automatized interactions and responses as memories were let to play, mesh, divide, and redivide according to their own dictates.

… the job; the goddamned job… still haven't called Boxman. Deb. That damned Argyle sock… He felt his thoughts pulled from one area, then forced into another… a documentary; stacking them up like cordwood in Auschwitz… Eichmann in a little glass booth… Korea, Lebanon, Vietnam, Gaza, Suez, South Afr…

His thoughts plunged down a dimly lit hole… a little red balsa wood plane with a wind up… Christmas, and Grandma's there, so we'll say grace this time… high school, college… planes at the grass strip near Evanston… testing at Lockheed… Air Force…

A cesspool of repressed fear yawned before him… The Python, panic… what to do, God, what to do?… the size of them… why me ?…

Baxter opened his eyes and saw Lothas removing his hand from the console. The Nitolan stared at him for a long time, then held its hands over its eyes for a moment. Lothas let his hands fall to his knees. "Baxter… you, your race… you are everything…" He waved a hand toward his compartment's iris. "Please leave. Take no offense, but please leave. I must think."

Baxter stood, a feeling of panic rising in his chest. He watched as Lothas put his head down on the cushions and appeared to sleep.

Back in his quarters, seated in a duplicate of the wing backed chair, Baxter shook his head at his transceiver. "I don't know, Wyman. After I woke up, Lothas seemed very upset. Then, he asked me to leave."

"I don't know what to make of it, Baxter. You think it's some kind of mind-reading machine?"

"I'm sure of it. Should I make a break for it? I know the way to the docking bay, and— "

"No. Baxter, get control of yourself. Since we don't have any plans, Lothas couldn't have uncovered any hostile intentions. We just don't know, so sit tight until we do."

"Sit tight."

"You read me correctly."

Baxter listened to the static as he reviewed language forms he had not used since high school. He let out his breath. "Wyman, has anyone gotten in touch with Deb yet?"

"Deb?"

"My wife."

"I'm sure someone has. Is it important?"

Baxter could feel himself becoming wild-eyed again, and he took several deep breaths. "You're damn right it's important, Wyman, I want you —you personally —to make sure that my wife is notified."

"Very well. I'll let you know as soon as I can about that visit from your friends. There shouldn't be any problems with letting them down—the slip-stick jockeys down here are as curious about them as they are about us. As far as access to computers, it depends on what they want. We aren't about to hand over classified information to a potential enemy. Do you know what they're interested in?"

"No." Baxter wiped a hand over his face. The hand came away wet. "What about the Russian?"

"No change. Lift-off is tomorrow. We still don't have a reading on the approach he's going to use."

Baxter laughed. "I think I do. He'll probably use the same one I'm using: sort of a combination of Alice in Wonderland with Blind Man's Bluff."

"Baxter?"

"Yeah?"

"Hang in there, Baxter. Okay?"

Baxter closed his eyes and nodded. "No sweat. And thanks. Baxter out." He released the key on his transceiver and studied the overhead. It was eggshell white, smooth and seamless. Images from his stay under Lothas's machine flashed through his mind, and he gripped the armrests of the chair to keep his hands from shaking.

I don't believe it! I'm scared. I am finger-shaking, head-sweating, pants-wetting scared.

The iris to his compartment opened, and he jumped and began backing away from the door. It was Simdna. "Captaincarlbaxter?"

Baxter held his head back as the muscles at the back of his neck knotted. "What is it, Simdna?"

"Lothas wishes to inform you that the council meeting has been postponed."

Baxter studied the guard, then nodded. "Thank you."

Simdna left, the door closing behind him. Baxter lowered himself to the knee-high pallet on the deck and exhaled.

"Now what?"

Baxter tossed on his pallet, his fingers clawing at the throats of his mind's monsters. He saw himself, a fraud in man's clothing. A creature of petty evasion, weak, frightened—above all, frightened. Thin hands reached out to work levers and turn knobs; watery eyes, reflective and darting, sought out lights and dials. Shaking and pain-whipped, the creature operated a machine. Baxter's view faded back, through the wall of the machine, into the light. He stumbled back as his view of the machine reached a point of recognition. With thick painted lips, gleaming cardboard teeth, and dime store flashlight bulbs for eyes, Carl Baxter raised a hand in his direction… the machine-Baxter buzzed as the creature inside screamed…

Baxter bolted upright, looked around the compartment, then wrapped his arms around his body to still the shaking. A low buzzing sound drew his attention to the transceiver on the wing-backed chair. Baxter stood, walked over to the chair, and keyed the instrument. "This is Baxter."

"Wyman here."

"What is it, Wyman?"

"Hold on for a moment while we patch you back through Mission Control. Remember, you won't have long."

"Wyman…" Baxter could hear the static shifts as Wyman went out and unseen hands fed unseen signals over new routes.

"Baxter?" The voice was clear, husky, yet soft.

Baxter stared at the transceiver. "Deb? Is that you?"

Baxter heard a familiar sniff, and knew she would be nodding her head and crying. "What have you gotten yourself into now?"

He swallowed, picked up the transceiver, and sat in the chair. "This is a fine mess I've gotten us in, Ollie." Baxter felt the tears welling in his eyes. "Has anyone explained… you know."

"Yes. I see from your new friends down here that you've become a real social climber." She laughed. "You want to know who sat up and held my hand last night?"

"Who?"

"Her husband lives in a white house." She sniffed again. "And you voted for the other one."

Baxter smiled and shook his head. "This'll teach you to mismatch my socks. Hey, you'd never believe the bathroom in my quarters. There's a machine in there that can clean and dry my uniform and underwear in twenty seconds flat — and you should see my laundress. His name's Simdna… cooks too— "

"Baxter, I love you."

He bit his lower lip. "Deb, is there anyone else listening in?"

"Only three or four hundred people that I know of."

Baxter shut his eyes. "Deb… there's something I… something I want to tell you."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"I've been holding down my side of your bed for a bunch of years, Baxter. I know. You can handle it. Do you understand that?"

"Sure."

"I know you don't believe it, Baxter, but it's true. You've got what it takes."

"Deb…"

"I have to go now, Baxter. Don't forget where you live."

"The house with the view, right?"

"Right." The audio filled with static as the frequency was returned to State. I love you, Deb. God, do I need you.

"Baxter, this is Wyman."

"Go ahead."

"It's go on the trip. Mission Control will get in touch with the Nitolan mission directly regarding the landing field and time. Still go on the Russian."

Baxter nodded. "I copy. And Wyman?"

"Yes, Baxter?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, but for what?"

"You know. The call to my wife."

Wyman chuckled. "Don't thank me, Baxter. That call was made at the orders of the President because of an urgent request by your friend Lothas. I thought you knew."

"Lothas requested that you put me in touch with my wife?"

"Affirmative. What do you make of it?"

What I make of it is I needed, very badly, to hear from Deb — to have her tell me I can handle it—to prop up my crumbling self-esteem. That, and that Lothas knew that. "I haven't a clue. I'll keep in touch."

"Wyman out."

Baxter released the key, leaned his head back against the chair, and fell into a troubled sleep.

In the control center, Lothas leaned against his chair's backrest while Medp shut down the receiver. "Medp, why would Baxter forget where he lives?"

Medp swung his chair in the governor's direction. "It is a joke, Lothas. It is said as a substitute for 'I want you to come home.'"

Lothas held up a hand toward the receiver. "Baxter did not laugh at the joke."

Medp shook his head. "There are jokes not to be laughed at. It is but another facet to this humor that still eludes me."

Lothas let his hand drop to his knee. "Why did his mate, Deb, not simply say 'I want you to come home'? There would be less confusion."

"Lothas, I am sure Baxter understood. This is what he meant by saying 'the house with the view,' when, from what you said, Baxter believes his mate to detest the view from their house. Another joke."

Lothas hissed, then let his muzzle drop to his chest as he passed a hand over one eye. "The melding showed me Baxter's mind, but it did not give me an understanding of it. On the outside, he functions as you or I; inside he is a warren of screaming agonies." Lothas turned to Medp. "I have never witnessed such confusion… such pain." He leaned forward. "Do the creatures use the humor to hide the things they feel from others?"

Medp nodded. "And from themselves as well."

"How can they hide what they are from themselves? It is impossible."

"You saw it for yourself, Lothas. All I have seen shows them to be complex, contradictory, self-deceptive, and even self-destructive."

Lothas leaned back in his chair. "Medp, the melding process not only makes clear to me the workings of Baxter's mind, you know that it will do the same for him. If what you say is true — as improbable as it sounds—then Baxter will have seen himself for the first time."

Medp nodded. "Possible."

"We cannot hide our motives from our own minds; to do so would cause us much pain and confusion. But, if a creature cannot see himself, do we damage it by allowing it to discover its motives?"

Medp leaned back and looked at the overhead. He then lowered his head and turned toward Lothas. "It is outside of my experience to imagine that knowledge of oneself could be damaging. But the hue-muns are also outside of my experience. Perhaps it could be damaging." Medp turned to a monitor displaying but a crescent of night-shrouded Nitola. "A more important question, Lothas, is can we live together with such creatures in peace?" Medp looked at Lothas.

"My mind thinks not."

Lothas looked at the monitor and nodded. "Perhaps Deayl is in the right." He turned to Medp. "In any event, we shall know once you obtain the information from their computers. Prepare your mission well, Medp. The future of this curious race may depend upon what you find. Our own futures, as well."

In his private quarters, Lothas reclined on his cushions and studied the hue-mun sitting nervously in the wing-backed chair. Baxter would cross his legs, uncross them, then cross them again. His eyes would dart about, then look in one direction for long, unblinking minutes. "Are you well, Baxter?"

The human raised his glance and looked at the Nitolan. "Well?" He nodded, then smiled. "Yes, and you?"

Lothas nodded. "I am well." He watched as the human's appearance altered to become calm, his motions unhurried. Perhaps this denial of the self is a means of hue-mun survival.

"What did you wish to see me about, Dimmis? Has the new meeting with the council been arranged?"

"No. Baxter, we are very different creatures from each other."

Baxter laughed. "This much even I could see."

Lothas waited for the hue-mun to quiet himself, then sat up. "I do not talk of skin, bones, shape, and size, Baxter." Lothas held up a five-fingered hand. "Our bone structures are similar, we are both carbon-based lifeforms —two eyes, two nostrils, two arms, two legs. I believe your race originated on my planet, as you must believe that my race did as well."

Baxter shrugged. "That judgment is for others to make, Dimmis. But, for myself, I believe you are what you say you are."

Lothas nodded. "There is a difference. Your thinking, Baxter; it is alien. But I can see it is alien by your own choosing. What I do not see is why. I know of no form of life that acts against its interests by choice, except yours."

Baxter frowned, then wiped a hand over his face. "I'm not sure I know what you mean." His hand came away wet. "Do you mean wars?"

Lothas shook his head. "No. We have had our own wars. Baxter. Wars can be an expression of self-interest." The Nitolan pointed a clawed finger at the human. "I talk about your thinking, and how your thinking makes you act. During the meld, among your many pains, I saw the need for your mate. Yet, when you talked with her, you made jokes; you hide the things you mean to say."

Baxter flushed. "That's my business. I would like to thank you for making the request."

"Is this what you mean, Baxter, or is this a joke? I do not understand. Understand that, to my mind, there are only a few ways that this situation can be resolved: First, we end hue-mun life on Nitola and resume control of our planet. We can do this."

Baxter blanched, then leaned forward, his elbows on the chair's armrests. "That would gain you nothing but a dead planet, Dimmis. To kill us from orbit, you will have to kill everything. If you land to kill us, then we can fight back, and we will."

Lothas nodded. "This is why my mind has not been in favor of this choice, although the minds of many Nitolans do favor it." Lothas waved a hand, dismissing the option. "Of course, I think it impossible that your race could attack and destroy mine. We have the Power. This leaves us with both races living together on Nitola, in some manner."

Baxter nodded as he exhaled a nervous breath. "I would prefer that."

"But the more we examine that course, Baxter, the more impossible it appears. We see you destroying the home planet, and this we could not tolerate. But your tribes are so divided, how could they agree to stop? I find that you do not represent all hue-muns, but only a small number. The Russian also represents only a small number. Yet, even so, you could not agree. I see that your tribes would try to use us each to gain an advantage over the other." Lothas shook his head.

"Another way is for the hue-muns to leave Nitola."

"Leave?"

"Yes. Find another planet."

Baxter leaned back in his chair and stared at Lothas. He placed a hand over his chest as he felt his heart beating, threatening to come loose of its supports. "How can we?"

"We have these ships, and we can build you more. Enough to vacate the planet."

Impossible! Baxter shook his head as he remembered that it was not his decision to make. "I don't know, Dimmis. It seems unlikely, but I will talk with my people."

"Such of them as you represent."

Baxter nodded. "Yes." He stood.

"Before you go, Baxter, you should understand that these talks with me and with the council are different in substance to us than they are to you.

"How do you mean?"

"In you I read an attitude… a desire to use this experience to gain an advantage for your race. To us, we are learning. When we know enough, the proper choice will become obvious. Such a choice is not something subject to concession or negotiation. We will see where the right is, then we shall pursue it. This right we seek is independent of either my desires —or yours."

Baxter gently rubbed his temples as he reviewed his meeting with Lothas and waited for Wyman to get back to him. State had not been pleased. The whole damned thing is falling apart. Baxter leaned back in the chair, thinking. This whole thing—it's like trying to stop the fall of mountains by stringing spools of rotting thread across the Grand Canyon.

Lothas had pointed at the dying oceans, the poison air, the sheer number of human mouths. "Still, Dimmis, we have a right to our future—and, on Earth. It is the future you committed us to. We didn't bail out and take the power with us—you did. If you had left us the power, perhaps things would have been different."

Lothas had swept the argument away with a wave of his clawed hand. "As lifeforms, you are freaks—self-destructive, murdering freaks. And what is your answer? We are only hue-mun.' You use this phrase to excuse it all. But, Baxter, this defines you as a lifeform; it defines you as flawed, unworthy. And this is how you define yourselves. "The Nitolan had leaned forward. "If we had left you the Power, there would be none of you left."

Baxter leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, then lowered his face into his hands. He had reported the talk to Wyman. "Baxter, are you insane?"

"Wyman, dammit, we both know I didn't ask for this! I knew I didn't know what I was doing, and so did you people! Now Lothas knows it, too. Wyman, you have got to get someone else up here. When Medp takes down the ship to get at the computers, what about putting a State Department mission —or something from the U.N.—on board?"

There had been a long silence, then Wyman came back on the air. "I have to talk to some people about all of this, Baxter, then I'll get back to you. One thing I can tell you now: if and when you have any more meetings with Lothas or with his council, keep your transceiver keyed and your mouth shut. We shall inform Lothas that State will attempt to deal directly with him. Understood?"

Baxter let his head fall between his hands, then began kneading the knot of muscles at the back of his neck. Wyman had taken the responsibility off of him, except for working the transceiver—something Baxter felt confident enough to handle. But, still, he felt no relief. He leaned back in the chair and bit his lower lip. He was coming across as a complaining, whining, incompetent loser. "Dammit, Wyman," he said to the overhead, "don't you understand that they're messing with my mind? How would you weather a good look at yourself, you brass-plated diplomat?"

His transceiver buzzed, and he pressed the key. "This is Baxter."

"Wyman. Well, boy, it looks as though you have royally screwed up the works. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't give two cents for the chances your tailfeathers have if you ever set foot in this country again."

"It's nice hearing from you too, Wyman."

"Okay, here is the drill. We have put together a mission, and we're waiting now for Lothas or his council to decide whether or not to take them on board. The communications we've had were not encouraging. Just in case, we're going on full alert, and a spit-and-baling-wire arrangement is being put together to coordinate the military defenses of every nation on Earth. By the way, we've had at least one break. The Russian isn't going to make it. He bought it during the launch— "

"Wyman, you twit! A break? You call that a break? What brand of bumwad are you using for brains? I need help up here, and fast—"

"Grow up, Baxter! Help, from the Soviets?"

Baxter shook his head. "No, Wyman. Help from another human." Baxter felt himself giggling. "You haven't gotten the message yet—you people down there. We're all in this together… all of us." He shook his head as his giggles turned into quiet tears. The transceiver clicked, then clicked again. Wyman had keyed in, then keyed out—nothing to say.

The transceiver clicked again. "Remember, Baxter. Do nothing without authorization, and make sure they understand that, from now on, they will be dealing with us directly. Wyman out."

Baxter released the key on the transceiver. He shrugged, released the catch on his belt, and stood, leaving the belt and transceiver in the chair. The iris to his compartment opened and Simdna entered. "Captaincarlbaxter, Deayl would speak with you if it is your desire."

Baxter looked at the transceiver on the chair, then back at Simdna. "Yes. I will see him." Simdna left through the iris and Deayl entered. "It is good to see you again, Illya. Are you feeling better?"

Deayl stared down at the hue-mun, the creature's image wavered before his eyes. Better? Do I feel better? The iris closed and Deayl took a step forward. "Baxter, we have exchanged names."

"Yes, Illya."

Deayl wiped a clawed hand over his muzzle. "Do you remember I said this obligates me to nothing?"

"I remember." Baxter frowned, then looked once again at the transceiver. He turned back and faced the Nitolan. Deayl had come another step closer, his frightful clawed hands were outstretched.

"Still, I must tell you why I do this, Baxter." Baxter began edging away from the Nitolan. "Do what?"

"Baxter, the knowing ones have left for Nitola to talk with your computers. The hue-muns below struggle with the same problem: how are we to live together in peace —a thing that can never be."

"How do you know? You're upset—"

"The longer we wait to take back our planet, the harder it will be. Even now the hue-muns prepare. But, I must make this clear to the council, and to do this I must provoke the hue-muns. You see, I must murder you."

"Murder…" Baxter watched as Deayl came closer, his black, dagger-sized claws glowing softly in the light of the compartment. The hands struck out, and Baxter ducked. He turned, grabbed the wing-backed chair and threw it at the Nitolan. Deayl swatted it away, splintering it, and smashing the transceiver. Before the pieces hit the deck, Baxter reached the panel controlling the iris and slapped it with both hands. "Simdna! For God's sake, Simdna!" As the iris opened, Baxter felt Deayl's hands encircling his chest, the long claws ripping into his lungs…

A week passed, and many of those on Earth marveled at how easily arms and territorial agreements between nations could be reached, now that they—in the face of the power—had become meaningless. The strange Nitolan vessel squatted silently next to the hangar where human technicians maintained the links between the ship and a vast array of computers located in almost every nation of Earth. No one saw the Nitolans, and for a week, there had been no communications from either Lothas or Baxter.

In a motel, near the airbase, a diplomatic mission headed by the secretary of state waited impatiently to board the Nitolan ship. On the other side of the field, a task force of commandos practiced their assault plan on the vessel. In Washington, Moscow, Paris, London, Peking, Cairo… haggard faces circled cup— and butt-littered tables, waiting by brand new communication facilities for some kind—any kind—of news.

The base commander, General Stayer, heard it first. A shaken voice—one of the technicians in the hangar. No warning. The Nitolans had disconnected the links to the hangar and rose into the night.

The waiting began in earnest.

Deb Baxter listened to the rain spatter against the window and let her arm fall on the empty side of the bed. She opened her hand, palm down, and caressed the overstuffed quilt. She made a fist, then rolled over and pulled a cigarette from a half-empty pack on her night stand. She had been three years off cigarettes, and she realized as she struck a match that she was already back to two packs a day. In the light of the match, her eyes were puffy, with dark circles. She touched the match to the end of the cigarette, then shook it out. Taking a pillow and propping it up against the headboard, she propped herself up against it and studied the dark surrounding the warm coal that brightened with each drag she took.

She had faced that Baxter wasn't coming back, learned she could survive the fact, then accepted it—almost. Nights without sleeping pills still became vigils. She threw off the covers, swung her legs to the cold floor and walked barefooted to the bedroom window. Holding the dark curtain aside, she stared at the security lights surrounding the experimental parking ramp. Somewhere out there, some poor jerk who had been conned off the farm with promises of becoming an "Aerospace Technician" was walking guard, rifle muzzle down, head and shoulders hunched under a poncho against the rain. She shook her head. "Stupid. It's not even supposed to rain in the desert."

She heard sirens in the distance, and then red lights streaked down the base's main drag, between her and the lights around the experimental ramp. There were always sirens. Baxter used to roll over and mumble something about the AP's playing cops and robbers, then sink back into sleep. She listened as the sirens grew dim, then gradually increased in volume. Must be turning into the area. She smiled and shook her head. An area. I don't call it a neighborhood, or even a development, anymore. An area. She felt an ash brush her knuckles as it fell from the cigarette to the carpet. "Damn!" She stooped down to make certain that she had not ignited the cheap pile, then held up her head as she heard the sirens grow very loud, then die amidst a squeal of brakes. Immediately a loud pounding came from her door.

She looked around the dark bedroom, found her robe thrown over a chair, and began putting it on. "Mrs. Baxter! Mrs. Baxter, are you in there?"

She tied the sash with trembling fingers. "Just a minute!" She ran into the living room and to the front door. Unlocking the door, she pulled it open. In the street before her house was a blue staff car flanked fore and aft by AP jeeps, red lights still flashing. She turned on the outside light and a graying Air -Force officer, accompanied by an AP, removed his hat.

"Mrs. Baxter. I am the base commander, General Stayer. I must ask you to come with me."

"I… General, is this about my husband? Is it?"

The officer looked down. "I'm sorry. I don't know. Please hurry. We haven't much time."

Deb turned from the door, opened the hall closet and pulled out a raincoat. As she put it on, she found the first thing handy, and slipped Baxter's rubber galoshes over her bare feet. Moments later, she sat by the general in the back of the blue staff car as the procession screamed its way toward the field.

The car stood silently on the edge of the field, the dim blue taxiing lights diffused by the droplets on the windows, illuminating Deb's face with a cold glow. She looked across the back seat through the windshield, but could see nothing but the rain. Pulling the raincoat around her, she shivered.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Baxter." The general turned to the driver. "Bill?"

"Yessir?"

"Turn on the car and let's have some heat."

"Yessir!" The driver hit the ignition, the motor caught, and in moments warm air blew against Deb's legs. She turned toward Stayer.

"Thank you. I didn't realize how cold I was."

Stayer nodded, then reached for a microphone attached to the back seat. He keyed the mike. "Tower, this is Stayer. Has GCA got 'em yet?"

"Affirmative, General. Ground con—"

Stayer switched the frequency indicator next to the mike hanger, then keyed the mike. "GCA, this is Stayer. You have an ETA yet?"

"This is GCA. Yes, General. They should be over the field in about a minute, although with this visibility you probably won't be able to see them until they land. The other ship didn't use lights."

"Stayer out." The general hung up the mike, looked at Deb, then turned back to the driver. "Bill, hit the wipers."

"Yessir." The car's electric wipers whined and thumped back and forth, but the field before them, as well as the sky above, remained empty.

Stayer leaned back, keeping his eyes on the deserted runway. "This is the first contact of any kind that we've had with them for three weeks, Mrs. Baxter. I know how difficult this is, but they specifically asked to meet with you. We tried to ask, but they ended the transmission before we could ask about your husband."

Deb nodded and turned to face Stayer. "I'll do whatever I can—"

The entire field grew bright with a blinding, yellow-white glare. Deb put her hands over her eyes, then peered through her fingers. The driver was leaning forward, over the steering wheel, looking up through the windshield.

"Jesus!" The driver craned his neck further, trying to get a vertical look. "Jesus, General, the size of it!"

Stayer, his head pressed against the rear window, simply nodded. Deb held her breath as a glittering shape filled the landing field before her. She was startled to realize that the only sound she heard was the car's motor and the patter of the rain on the roof. Without thinking, she reached out a hand and grasped Stayer's forearm.

The area beneath the ship grew bright as it came within a few meters of the ground. Red light joined the white as the belly opened, and a small, black craft was gently lowered to the runway. "It's the Python, General. And there's something else. Looks like two boxes."

Somewhere on the ship, a blue panel illuminated. The general took a breath, leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "That's the signal, Bill. Get going."

Deb saw the driver looking at the controls of the staff car as though it was the first time he had ever seen them.

"Damn!" He put the car in gear, the car jumped forward, then died. "I'm sorry, sir… I…"

"Take it easy, Bill. Just start it up, and take it easy."

"Yessir." The car started, then began approaching the ship. Deb's hand dropped from her eyes as she stared at the vessel, growing larger just at the moment she would have sworn it could grow no larger. The car stopped. Deb watched as an illuminated ramp extended from under the blue panel on the ship and touched the ground. A moment later a creature with massive legs for walking, smaller clawed legs held in front, and a thick tail behind, walked down the ramp and took up a position next to it.

"Mrs. Baxter?"

Deb turned toward Stayer, realizing she still held his arm. "What… what do I do?"

Stayer nodded at the creature. "Go over to… that. It'll tell you what to do. Good luck."

Deb opened the door, stepped out, and stood facing the ship. She could tell it was still raining, but none fell around the vessel. Leaving the door open, she walked toward the ramp, keeping her eyes on the creature. When she was ten feet from it, she stopped. "Well?"

The creature looked down at her. "You are the mate of Captaincarlbaxter?"

"Yes." She looked up the ramp into the ship, and at the top she saw a familiar face. "Baxter!" She ran past the creature, onto the ramp, and then reached the top. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at him, then ran to him and held him tightly.

"Easy, Deb." He kissed her and held his cheek tightly against hers.

She pushed back and held him at arm's length. "Baxter." She sniffed, then laughed. "That's some dynamite entrance you've got there, Baxter!"

Baxter smiled. "Wait until you see the rest of my act." He looked from Deb's wet hair, to his old raincoat, then to his old rubber galoshes. He looked back at her face and shook his head. "That's my Deb. All class. Why didn't you dress up? You're going to meet some important people."

"Oh, you jerk!" She embraced him again, then withdrew her arms as she heard a rasping sound behind her.

Baxter nodded in the direction of the open ramp door, where the creature Deb had seen was now standing. "Deb, I would like you to meet my friend, Deayl. If you would be friends with him, he would be called Illya."

Deb nodded at Deayl. "My name is Deb."

The creature nodded back. "You must call me Illya, then."

Baxter bent down, picked a helmet up from the deck, and turned to Deayl. "Illya, there's something I have to do. Would you keep Deb company for a few minutes?"

Deb frowned. "Baxter!"

He kissed her, turned and walked down the ramp. Both she and Illya stood at the head of the ramp as Baxter went down, walked to the edge of the concrete runway, and knelt down. She turned to Deayl. "What is he doing?"

"Something that he wishes to do." He turned his head down toward Deb. "I asked Baxter if I could explain to you what has happened, and he consented." Deayl looked back at the hue-mun kneeling on the edge of the runway. "I tried to kill Baxter." Deb looked at the creature's clawed hands, then to the coal black eyes. "I hurt him very badly. This was to make you humans angry, and make impossible a settlement between us."

Deayl nodded toward Baxter. "Our medicine saved him, then he saved me. I was to be tried by the council for my act, and Baxter interceded. What was said is not important, but he showed us something we had never seen before." Deayl looked back at Deb. "When we see the right, that is what we accept and follow. But the right says Baxter should have demanded my death. Instead, he pleaded for me. He understood why I had acted the way I did. He… showed mercy. You hue-muns are everything evil that we had feared becoming, but you are also greater than we could hope to be. Because of this, and because of the things the knowing ones found, our ships will leave. Earth is yours for as long as you can keep it."

Deb looked down the ramp and saw Baxter at the bottom. In his arms he carried his helmet, and as he came close to the door, she saw that the helmet was filled to the brim with mud. He stopped, held it out toward Deayl, and smiled as the Nitolan took it and bowed. "A home for you, Baxter."

"A home for you, Illya."

Deayl stood up, turned and went through an open iris. It blinked shut behind him. Baxter took Deb's arm and steered her down the ramp. When they reached the runway, the ramp retracted, the ship became dark, then it lifted quietly away from the field. Deb felt the rain on her cheek as she followed Baxter to where the Python stood on the runway next to the two cubical containers. General Stayer got out of his car and stopped next to them.

Baxter patted the nose of the Python and turned toward the general. "There you are, General. I'm returning your property, and I even saved you some fuel."

Stayer placed a hand on Baxter's shoulder. "I'm glad to see you, Baxter. You'll never know how glad."

"The feeling is mutual, General." Baxter looked up as he saw a stampede of siren-screaming, light-flashing vehicles moving toward their location from the tower area. "I guess that'll be all the brass." He turned toward Stayer. "General, I have two favors to ask."

"Shoot."

Baxter went to one of the containers. "General, this is the information the Nitolans pulled out of our computers. It's been put together with their information and processed in ways I don't pretend to understand. It shows, day by day, the human race lasting another hundred and twenty years at the outside. Their predictions are accurate, which is why they left. What they saw told them that they could come back in a few hundred years and pick up where they left off—that humanity will have eliminated itself by then." Baxter nodded, then held Deb around the shoulders. "But, Medp told me that this particular prediction of theirs has one very large, unpredictable variable. That's us: humanity. If I were you, I'd have the container moved to wherever it was the Nitolans linked into those computers and get to work."

Stayer nodded. "And the other favor?"

"Before all the brass shows up, I'd like to borrow your car and driver. I want to go home."

"Baxter, there are briefings, the Secretary—"

"General, I want to go home."

Stayer motioned at his car, it started up, and began rolling in their direction. The car's headlights illuminated the Python and the two containers. "One more thing, Baxter."

"Yessir?"

"What's in the other container?"

Baxter pulled on Deb's arm, stopped next to the car-sized cube, and pressed a panel set into the side of the container. It parted into two sections and swung open, exposing two wing-backed chairs, claw-on-ball feet, yellow and orange floral pattern. "I'd like these sent to my house."

Deb looked at them, then began laughing. "Oh…oh, Baxter… they're horrible!"

Stayer shook Baxter's arm. "Get going, Captain. And expect an early call. You have quite a selling job to do."

"Yessir. Thank you, sir."

The two entered the rear door held by the driver, and after shutting it, the driver ran around the front of the car and entered. In moments, the car moved off. Stayer felt the rain, hunched his shoulders and walked to the container with the chairs. As waves of vehicles pulled up, lighting the area with their headlights, the General took a last look, then pressed the container's panel. The cube closed with a snap. He nodded. "She's right. They are horrible." Shaking his head, General Stayer turned to greet the brass.

Lothas closed his fingers over the handful of dirt and looked up at the image of receding Nitola in the monitor. He held the closed hand toward the monitor and turned toward Medp. "In suspension it will be nothing to us. Perhaps a few planetary cycles, then we shall go home."

Medp studied the monitor. "Perhaps not."

Lothas nodded. "I hope you are right, Medp. They are special creatures, aren't they?"

"Indeed. It will take me many star cycles to absorb the information on them that I have acquired."

Lothas turned back toward the monitor. "Have you found an answer to the humor ritual?"

Medp gave an involuntary snort, then shook his head. "Perhaps there is no answer." He giggled.

"You seem to have discovered the cause of the reaction. Please explain."

Medp nodded, then looked up at the overhead. "Very well. Do you know of mice?"

Lothas nodded. "The small rodent."

"Yes." Medp giggled again. "And the mythical being of Santa Claus?"

Lothas leaned against his backrest, half-closed his large, dark eyes, and studied the knowing one. "Yes. You explained that in your report on hue-mun beliefs. Explain this behavior."

Medp held out his hands. "Lothas, why are a little gray mouse and Santa Claus similar?" Medp closed his eyes, shook, and gasped for breath.

"Are you well?"

Medp waved a hand. "Yes, yes. Answer the question."

Lothas thought a moment, then shook his head. "It escapes me, knowing one. Why are a little gray mouse and Santa Claus similar?"

Medp reached out a hand and grasped the back of Lothas's chair, apparently to keep from falling to the deck. "You see, Lothas… they both have long white beards—" tears began streaming from the knowing one's eyes "—except for the mouse!"

The control center rocked with the sounds of Medp's laughter as the knowing one slapped Lothas's back, then staggered through an open iris, leaving Lothas alone with only a puzzled expression for company. Lothas shook his head. "Truly, there is much to learn." He reached out a clawed finger to press the panel for the voice log. His finger stopped short of the panel, he closed his eyes and nodded.

Then the dinosaur laughed.